The Crimsonleaf Saga: Walking the Line
by J. Idanian
Summary: Zak Crimsonleaf, halfelven mercenary, and company become entangled in a complex web that can only end badly for all of them. Rated M just in case, for later chapters. Starts off slow, but gets better. Please read and review. Complete!
1. Mercenary on the Edge

I don't own anything from anything that accidentally appears here, which is too bad. Feel free to criticize this thing halfway to the Abyss, because I've already convinced myself that it's that bad, so no harm done.

The Crimson Trailblazer

By J. Idanian

The sun beat down, mercilessly, unendingly, on the scorched plains just outside the outer reaches of the Calim desert, as if to deter anything at all from living there. It certainly was succeeding at that, but here and there, a few stubborn cacti grew, and a caravan trudged onwards, southward towards the great city of Calimport. One particular example of this persistence of people to actually travel in the area was scrambling over a sandy hill, on the northern reaches of the waste, spitting sand out of his mouth, and cursing the unfairness of life. Taking a moment to sling a worn hand crossbow back into its place on his right hip, he idly kicked at the mountain of sand. Zak Crimsonleaf was in trouble, and that was putting it mildly. He supposed, as he always seemed to be doing, upon reflection, that it might have been easier just to have cooperated, and gotten everything over with quietly.

"But if I had done that," he decided out loud, "I wouldn't be who I am today, which, I must say, is one dashing swordsman, but one who also will not take _any insults_ from those flaming idiots who just forced me to prove my valor yet again." He placed a special emphasis on the words 'any insults', warning the world that he wouldn't stand to be treated in such an undignified fashion much longer.

The warm breeze that was providing a slight relief from the throbbing heat that would bake the landscape until sundown cut off without warning just then, leaving him staining the armpits of his suitably battered leather jerkin, with many pockets, that he wore over the dented and equally battered chain mail shirt, which was all that came between him and a sword thrust to the heart sometimes, too many sometimes for his liking. His reddish-brown hair was restrained from sticking to his forehead by a blazing red headband. The pointed ears that made his ancestry plain for all to see were hidden behind the headband. He had a great faculty for getting into fights he just as easily could have avoided had he suffered a blow to his pride. He uncorked a slim hip flask that sat just behind the hand crossbow, and tipped it back, taking a healthy swig of the ale inside, which, even though it had grown warm due to the heat, brought some momentary relief to his parched throat.

Pushing a few stray strands of hair off his forehead, where they had become pasted, he heaved his weary body to it's feet, and started to trudge onward, sending up little plumes of sand when he sloughed through the deeper parts of the hill. It was times like this he really wished he had found time to study magic when he was younger, but as it was, he only knew the few cantrips he had learned by passing a few coins to a hedge wizard, all minor, and none of which would get him out of the mess he had gotten himself into by one excessively stupid stunt back at the oasis village he was fleeing from. Remembering the incident, he grinned, then caught himself.

"If I'm lucky, my reputation will precede me to the next town so I won't have to do this kind of thing," he sniffed, glancing back to see if he was still being pursued. Nobody.

"I really ought to make camp somewhere and wait until the sun goes down," he mumbled to the empty air. But he knew it would be just begging to be caught and tortured, which appealed to him even less then pressing on. Well, if they should catch up, he'd put up quite a fight. Fondly patting the leather and steel scabbard on his back, which carried his personalized broadsword, _Echoing Courage_, he entertained thoughts about putting the pointy end into the hide of the person who had caused him all this trouble. The kite shield that was slung over the scabbard was one of the main things weighing him down, but without it, he'd have to rely on the swordbreaker dagger that was sheathed in the small of his back, and that was difficult to draw without first taking off the shield anyway. Not to mention, the shield also had three deep notches cut in its topside, to catch and break the enemy's sword.

Zak's trademark style of fighting, which he had trained at for years, was breaking the other person's weapon. He wasn't averse to using the crossbow when the situation demanded, but he preferred a straight on fight. With his sight beginning to become a little hazy from the dehydration, he tripped over his own feet, and found his face buried in the sand again. At least this time he remembered to keep his mouth closed. Brushing the grains off, he started again, cursing even more loudly. Even being caught by the Harpers would be preferable to this in a few more hours. Another day would have him seeing lakes and oceans on the horizon, unless he only traveled by night and hid during the day, as any sensible person would do.

"But no! The mighty Zak Crimsonleaf must inevitably make a fool of himself. It's _expected _of me," he proclaimed, thumping his chest with one fist, gesturing aimlessly with the other. He dug into his left jerkin pocket, and found a scratched and scraped coin bearing the stamp of the Dalelands. He had picked it up quite a while back, when he left Scardale, and had carried it with him as a sort of good luck charm ever since. Casually flipping it as he strode on, he began to complain to Tymora, of whom he was a worshipper. Not that he had ever been devout, he held a healthy skepticism of the priesthood, but he paid his dues, and figured he was good with the afterlife. Didn't mean he couldn't sound off about his troubles. What did she care?

"Great Lady, please to note my problem and get me the hell out of this sandpit soon." He didn't expect any miracle to come sailing down and help him, and he wasn't disappointed. Looking back again, he thought he spotted a blurry shape straggling after him. Increasing his pace, he opted to give up walking, and threw himself down the side of the dune. As the sand slid by, burning his backside, he stifled a groan of pain, and shoved the coin back in his pocket with his left hand, and drew the hand crossbow with his right. Plucking a bolt from the small pouch next to it, he slotted it into the groove, and clicked the bow into ready position. It was designed so that the arms could fold up, for ease of storage, and many times he had been grateful for that. It looked like there had been only one shape, but he couldn't be sure, so he took out a couple more bolts, and kept them ready in his other hand, sighting at the top ridge of the dune, taking a quick moment to kiss his amulet for luck, and mutter, "Give me this one," as he always did when going into battle.

His headband was already soaked with sweat, and was proving more of a distraction than he wanted, but he still didn't take it off. It wouldn't do to advertise his race openly. He snorted derisively. He would much rather have been a human or an elf than a combination of the two, but if wishes were fishes, the sahuagin would rule the world. Elves considered him deprived, and humans considered him contaminated, or that was mostly his experience, and he'd had plenty of grief from some folk around the Sea of Fallen Stars. A couple times he was very nearly caught and hung, once in Hillsfar (no surprise there) and once in his native Scardale.

If he ever found his father, he'd have some choice words for him about getting intimate with elves. The forest folk were as mysterious and complicated as hell, and he wanted no truck with them. Excepting his mother, of course, whom he hadn't seen since he left Scardale at the age of twenty-two. Not that he held her in much higher regard than his father. If she had had a tad more self-respect, she wouldn't have come to Scardale and met his father in the first place. But then again, he supposed that losing one's arm was fairly major if you didn't know a good cleric and had a lot of gold. The gold wasn't a problem, but the cleric was.

Damn priests wouldn't lift a finger if you weren't dying already or had ready coin, seemed like. He'd heard the first half-elves were the result of war crimes, and somehow, it seemed appropriate. But he'd still knock out the teeth of anybody who said he was one grain less anybody else. The pursuing figure came into sight over the ridge, and spotted him right off. It was one of the town guards, and he was carrying a scimitar. Upon noticing the crossbow aimed at him, he dropped the weapon and threw up his hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but Zak didn't give him the chance. He snapped off the first crossbow bolt straight into the man's mouth. The figure wavered and collapsed, a red stain slowly spreading down the sand. Working quickly, he loaded another bolt, and waited again. He tasted sand in the corners of his mouth, but didn't move.

A trickle of sweat worked its way down his face, but he remained still. After five minutes of nothing, he stood up, and put the crossbow back again. He knew he didn't have to have killed the guard, but if he didn't, the man would report back and spread the word about where he had gone. Even though the man would be missed back at the town, nothing was to say it couldn't have been an accident. Zak took a dim view of killing, but had a remarkable apathy to doing it himself. He was seriously thinking of just digging a hole and hiding out until sunset, but instinct kept him moving. Breathing heavily, he crested another ridge, and saw…yet another expanse of plains and sand. Suppressing the urge to scream, he kept going. His boots were beginning to become gritty, but he saw no convenient way to empty them out and not much point to it either. He was beginning to see a pattern in the attacks that were keeping him on the move. This wasn't any ordinary coincidence.

He'd been on the run for some time now, due to a series of attacks from either professional bounty hunters, or opportunists, and even he had limits, not that he'd ever admit that in public. All of the people who had attacked him had stated, under threat of head removal that they were looking for something he had, but hadn't been told what it was. They were also mostly allied with more virtuous organizations that abounded all around Faerun. His possessions were few, but he comprehended quite well the logic behind his unknown tracker's motives. Naturally, an object like the ring of truth or the ring of cat's grace that he wore would be extremely valuable, as well as the wand of cold and bag of holding hanging off his belt, but those weren't his most valuable possession besides the sword. Taking out the coin, he rubbed his thumb over the head face again, as he habitually did when pondering something. He got the coin from a dying Harper agent that he had been hired by as a sellsword, and didn't bother to check it over closely.

Maybe he should have it looked at by a wizard. What he really shouldn't have done, now that he thought about it, was to appropriate the Harper pin off the man's corpse after he'd expired. He knew beyond a doubt that they were looking for the pin, because as far as he knew, very, very few Harper agents had died without ditching the pin first if they weren't in the hands of friends. He just didn't think that they'd be this persistent! Though he still had a nagging suspicion a few other people were after the pin. That ensured that he only saw his home about every five years or so, and sometimes not even then. He had to go sneak back in the dead of night to visit his own house, like a thief. He'd thought about giving the pin back, but figured that what's done is done, and after having seen how the Harpers treated those who trespassed against them, decided not to give it back, but also not to kill any Harper agents who came seeking him, if at all possible, because that would just make things worse.

Shifting his mind back to the task at hand, he made a mental note to get his bumps and bruises looked at first thing when he got into Tethyr, and out of the reach of Calimsham's authorities. But to do that, he first needed to get out of the desert. Deciding that he would take shelter for the rest of the day, and keep going when the sunset came, he eased himself down in the shade of the latest dune he had been traipsing over. The heat diminished somewhat, but he was still miserable. Taking out the wand of cold, he pointed it at the ground in front of him, and snapped the command word. A cone of icy rays blasted forth, freezing into a sheet of ice at his feet.

Whistling jauntily, he tossed the implement up in the air, and caught it again. Kneeling down next to the ice sheet, he chipped a bit off with a crossbow bolt point and tossed it into his mouth. "I could get used to this," he mused, then the pain in his neck made him swallow the ice chip and nearly choke on it when he tried to look behind him. His right arm was hurting from a bruise he had taken back at the tavern. Thinking back there made him smile, if only for a moment. Why, even when he came into town he had made an impression.

Earlier in the day

The leader of the caravan saw the oasis town on the horizon, it's red-orange clay walls and buildings blending into a single structure at some points, and excitedly passed the information back along the line, until all of the people that made up the procession of camels, packages, passengers, and guards were speaking of the respite from the heat and dryness that would be coming. Zak, who was around the middle of the column, quite anticipated buying a round or two at the local alehouse, or whatever excuse for a pub they had around here. His fellow guardsman, Anbory, clapped him on the shoulder.

"The end of a long road, friend," he enthused, jingling the money pouch at his side. "With plenty of coin to spend." Zak grinned wickedly.

"They don't accept cactus needles as lawful currency, you know," he retorted to Anbory, returning the shoulder clap. The guard had a collection of the many needles that had stuck him along the way, and had become rather proud of it, even though whenever it came up in conversation it sparked a spirited recollection of when the dusky Tethyrian had tripped and in the act of throwing himself backward to avoid a mouthful of sand and rocks, sat down on a cactus. He hadn't been able to sit down without pain for two days afterwards.

"Though naturally, with me on board, I knew we wouldn't be seeing much action out here," he added, examining his fingernails, and pretending to buff them on his jerkin. The other guard laughed boisterously.

"Because even the bandits wouldn't want anything to do with you?" he suggested. Zak's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Anbory's smile quickly vanished. While Zak laughed at good-natured jokes about himself, he took any insult to his dignity, however small, as a mortal insult, and would waste no time hauling out _Echoing Courage_ and carving a few pieces off whoever had done the insulting. Just as quickly as it had appeared, Zak's sour mood went away, and he gestured grandly to the oasis, which was gradually growing larger.

"I tell you, once I'm there, I will not be moved if a black dragon walks in and starts melting the place," he declared. "I am long overdue for a bit of rest, and I'm never going to get all the sand out of all the places it has no business being in." Anbory nodded sagely.

"I know exactly what you mean. Let me tell you of the time when I was guarding another caravan heading along the same route we are."

"I can only assume that they survived this story, as you're still here to tell it." Zak commented, mopping at his forehead. It wasn't the heat that bothered him about the place; it was what the heat did. If he never saw another sand dune in his life, it'd be too soon. Anbory's grin became broader, if that was possible. The man was the jolliest person Zak had ever met, and for some reason, he found that mildly annoying sometimes.

"You see, it all began when a horrendous sandstorm sprang up, and we were practically blind," Anbory began.

"You haven't seen a sandstorm," Zak commented from the sidelines.

"Yes I have, and when I was there," the other went on, "We were trying to find out way through the shifting sands. I myself," here he indicated himself proudly, "was the main part of the effort."

"And what a pity it would be if you blundered into a cactus doing it," Zak lamented in a wry tone of voice.

"And in my desperate flight, I came upon a man's turban."

"As opposed to a woman's turban?" Zak asked just to keep the story moving along.

"But when I made to lift the turban up, I found a man's head inside." Zak winced at the image.

"Talona's toenails, you don't mince words."

"No, let me explain. The head was attached to a man's body, and I got down and scratched the sand out of his ears and nose. The man coughed a little, and said 'Get a shovel, there's a good camel under me." Anbory concluded triumphantly. "That is what I call a bad sandstorm." Zak laughed despite himself, and clapped Anbory on the shoulder again.

"A fine tale. Any others?"

"Why not sing one of those fine songs you were bellowing out last night?" Anbory deflected the request. Zak shook his head. "Those are strictly used for occasions where there's a bar or large amounts of ale being passed around. Some people, as hard as it may be to believe, _don't approve of songs with explicit phrases_," he announced solemnly, in a low voice, and the two sellswords had a good laugh over that. The caravan had about reached the oasis, and the camel-riding merchants were veering off towards the market, where a great number of people were advertising their wares already. What looked most promising to Zak, however, was the low-slung clay building bearing the sign that read _The Cooling Breeze_. Adjusting his equipment, he and Anbory strode off together towards the door. As they passed by the entrance to the market, Zak drank in the sights and sounds of a desert city. These people knew how to sell things, that much was certain. When Anbory made to enter the tavern first, Zak laid a hand on his shoulder. "Watch and learn," he admonished, and threw open the door with all his strength, causing a tremendous _boom_ to sound as it struck the wall.

All conversation ceased, and every set of eyes came to rest on the figure that stepped confidently in through the doorway. Zak knew he looked dangerous, with the red headband, sword and shield, and a spur hanging from his right boot. He had lost the left one somewhere in the sands, and never found it, which he was sorry about, but now that he thought about it, it gave him more character like this. He cast a good look around at the populace, seeing if there was anybody who could give him trouble. Only one or two cases appeared likely to be sober enough to challenge him, and strong enough to think they could win. One of those cases was wearing the sash of a town enforcer, and he tapped on the ornament audibly, saying that Zak should take care of how he handled himself. The half-elf nodded in his direction, sidled up to the bar, and rapped on the wood to call the barkeep. The man, who himself was big enough to handle anybody who got drunk enough to start a fight, informed him,

"If the door is damaged, it's coming out of your pocket." Zak nodded once, and asked,

"There any actual laws in here?" The barkeep shrugged.

"A few months ago, we got some nut what comes in and starts beating up folks. He were took down fast enough by the only criminal element in town." A slow smile tugged at the corners of Zak's mouth.

"This 'criminal element' have a name?" he said, tossing five copper pieces on the bar. "You can tell me when I've worked through those." The barkeep nodded sagely.

"He has more names than I can count, but the one I know him by is Arakonza. You can find him sitting out there about this time, taking in the crowd." He moved off to the other end of the bar. Anbory let out a long breath as he sat down on the stool next to Zak.

"I can't say that your entrance was overly subtle. You've got an overdeveloped sense of pride, and someday it's going to prove more trouble than it's worth."

"I'll be the judge of that," Zak asserted, accepting the tankard of ale that was thumped down in front of him and taking an experimental sip. Amazingly enough, it wasn't all that bad, though like every other liquid in the place, it was warm. He decided to seek out this 'Arakonza', for taking out the only criminal element in a city was likely to endear him to the populace, and would increase his ready coin. Draining the tankard in two long pulls, he set it on the bar again.

"Seriously, could you sing something? Besides _Warriors of the North_?" Anbory appealed to him, hands spread. "It's not that I don't like the song, just that I've heard it too much. Sing that one song, y'know, _Here's a Great Night_." Sighing, Zak threw up his hands.

"Fine, have it your own way," he grumbled. "But first,I've got to find a self-styled crime lord." Anbory got a confused look.

"How are you going to do that? Just stand up here and ask?"

"Yes." Zak confirmed. "You want to know why? Because nobody has the right to control what I do, and nobody is going to stop me from proving it."

"But you haven't got to prove it," Anbory protested. Zak shrugged.

"Just to myself. If I can't believe in me, who can I believe in? And to keep believing that I can do anything I want, I've got to defy authority, especially unjust authority, so if you're afraid of the authorities, now would be a good time to move off."

"But why do you have to prove yourself to yourself?" the other asked curiously. Zak sighed, and put a hand on his forehead.

"It's what I do, _all right?_ You going to stay or go?" Anbory looked around, and got up off the stool. He moved over to another table, and took a seat, muttering,

"Sorry, but I'm not that crazy." Zak stood up, and raised his hands.

"Okay, a shiny silver piece to the first person who tells me where I can find Arakonza right now!" The city official looked as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, but one of the customers, who had had way too much ale, thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen, and began pounding the table and guffawing loud enough to wake a vampire during the day. That broke the spell, and most people went back to their drinks. The official, however, got up, scraping his chair back, a calculating look on his face. His hand went to the hilt of his shamshir, and he deliberately stepped over to where Zak was standing, and looked down on him. Zak paid him no notice. The official persisted.

"You want to do business with him, you've gotta go through us." he said in a reasonable tone of voice. "We're kind of his intermediaries." Zak turned and regarded the man balefully.

"Who in the Nine Hells does this man think he is to try and intimidate me?" he asked the air, as if nobody were standing there. "He looks like a grimy little guard with no respect for anybody else and a sword that's makes him look like a fourteen-year old." The guard bristled at the insult, but tried again.

"It's the only way to play this game. The man doesn't talk to complete strangers, and we charge for a letter of introduction. You don't pay, don't even bother."

"Stick it up your arse," Zak snapped, at the end of his short patience. His ever-present pride was goading him onward. He might be beaten, killed, or tortured, but he would never be insulted!

"Nobody tells me what I can or can't do. You accept that, and you'll walk away. Try something incredibly stupid, like draw a weapon, and I can't guarantee you'll live." The guard recoiled a little, but regained his confidence. Placing his hand on the pommel of the sword, he announced to the bar, which had been listening with intense interest,

"I don't know who you think you are, northerner, but maybe a little tenderizing will do you some good," A note of genuine puzzlement entered his voice, "I don't know what you're getting at. I can tell you that just paying the fee isn't as much trouble as fighting us all."

"That may be, but any attempt to tell me what to do will be met with the same answer, so are you going to fight me or not?" The guard half drew his sword.

"Bring it, sellsword!" Zak was boiling over, and before he knew it, steel scraped against leather, and _Echoing Courage _was in his hand. The broadsword was thirty-seven inches long from pommel to tip, and gleamed in the dull light. About a third of the way up the blade, a long narrow notch began where the blood channel normally was. It effectively divided the blade into two blades from that point onward. With the notch, he could, if he was good enough, catch and break other swords. Shrugging the kite shield off his back, he slid his arm through the straps, and stood ready. The guard drew his shamshir the rest of the way, which was a favored weapon in the southern lands. The blade was mostly straight and narrow until the last three inches, where it curved upwards a tad. The name literally meant, 'lion's tail' in an old language, and it had reach, and was effective in a close fight like this. Zak whirled his sword once, which served to establish both that he thought he was hot stuff, and settle him into a battle-ready stance.

"Still think you can take me on?" Zak taunted, twisting his ring of cat's grace as he talked. At once, he felt more balanced, more stable on the ground. He doubted he was going to make it out of this unscathed, but he had set himself to it, and once he started something, he always finished it. Always and without exception. The guard didn't respond, but charged forward, swinging the shamshir in a controlled fashion, slicing the air so swiftly that Zak's sensitive ears could hear the whistle. The fighter angled his sword to catch the blade in the notch, but even with his improved reflexes, he missed that, and only parried the attack. He met the charge with one of his own, but held his shield out in front, swinging his sword in a wild arc behind him to take out anybody who was helping the guard. He felt the sword ring off something, ducked, and rolled to the side, away from both of them.

The other customer who had looked like he might present a challenge was up, and holding a scimitar in one beefy fist. The other fist was wrapped around a parrying dagger. The two of them advanced on him. Good as he was, he didn't know if he could take on three weapons at once. He could try, though, and through himself at the right-hand man with the dagger, hoping to take him out first before the other could respond. The scimitar came up in an underhanded slash at his sword arm while the dagger reached in from the other side. Bashing the smaller weapon to the side with his shield, this time he did manage to catch the scimitar in the notch. Twisting savagely, he forced the man to let go of the weapon, or let it be broken. The blade whirled across the room, slipping out of his notch, and clattered to the floor. Wary of being attacked from behind, he spun around again, smacking the man's head with his shield as he did so to deter him for a bit. He barely managed to deflect the shamshir's thrust in time, receiving a long slash across his stomach in payment. Good thing for the chain mail shirt! Without it he'd have been leaking his guts onto the floor. He assessed the situation with a practiced glance, and kept on fighting.

With no other weapon, the guard was hard pressed to hold off the vengeful fighter. Zak caught the longer sword in one of his shield notches, and snapped his arm to the side, but the guard held on. The blade broke about two-thirds of the way up it's length with a ringing sound. "Enough!" the guard cried out, lowering what remained of his weapon with dismay. "All right, you're good!" "You insulted me," Zak accused, and spun and kicked into the man's stomach, folding him almost in half. Turning around again, he confronted the other man, who had retrieved his scimitar and was advancing on him. A skittering noise behind him forced him to glance back, and he saw the guard running out the door, yelling for help. Cursing his ill fortune, and his blinding pride, not for the first time, Zak slid a throwing knife out of his sleeve with his shield hand. He sent it hurtling at the other man, but with a clang, he deflected it with the scimitar. It slowed him down enough for Zak to rush by him, aiming another delaying slash on the way as well as swiping up the dagger again, and get out the door as well.

Once out on the street again he returned the sword to its place on his back. It occurred to him that if he wished to live he should probably make the best of his escape, and flee into the desert, but that was almost a certain death sentence. A shout cut through the air. "Hey you, with the shield! Going somewhere?" Swearing a blue streak at yet another interruption, Zak noticed a few more guards descending on him. He didn't wait for them to catch up, but took off running, his newly enhanced agility lending speed to his feet. He cut right at the first intersection, then left, ignoring the murmurs and stares that followed him as he rushed through the crowd, shoving aside those who didn't get out of the way in time. Reaching the defensive wall that surrounded the city; he raced up the stairs to the top, the angry guardsmen following behind. It was at least a thirty-foot drop to the sand. Murmuring a quick prayer to Tymora, he hurled himself into empty space.

Now

Musing over his past exploits, Zak was pondering what to do next, when, quite suddenly, a loud crack, like that of lightning, boomed overhead. Startled, he looked up, and saw a shimmering and twisting portal of blue-yellow energy swirling in the sky overhead. It looked like it had just appeared out of nowhere, but having seen a great deal of magic, he knew it was a portal he was facing. He didn't think it led to the Abyss or some other place like that, but he didn't know that anybody friendly was coming out of it, so he drew a dagger from his bracer, and prepared to meet anything. Well, anything except what he got. The body of a human flashed into existence in the maelstrom, and plummeted limply down towards him. The portal closed behind it, though Zak could have sworn he saw something else trying to get through. Dismissing it as his imagination, he extended his arms to catch the person and was hurled to the ground by the impact. Groaning at the new pain in his arms and midsection, he sat up, and gawked.

The newcomer was a _lady_, with spiky black hair tied into a short ponytail and a wicked-looking scar that creased her forearm. And she was sporting several fresh wounds that were still trickling blood. One of them, a long slash that crossed her jaw line and dwindled to nothing near the base of her neck, was deep and obviously in need of tending. Even with the wounds, he thought she was one of the most dangerous people he'd ever seen. The ripped leather armor she was wearing showed evidence of a fierce fight, and he saw a wicked looking dire mace loosely gripped in her hands. Lucky that the spiked end had missed him, thudding into the sand instead. Bewildered beyond reckoning, Zak said to the unconscious lady,

"Well, this seems to be a fine place that I've found! Beautiful women fall out of the sky from time to time. I'll have to build a summer home here and retire." Too bad nobody else was around to hear him but the shifting sands. Not sure what to do, he gently moved her onto the ice patch, and fished around for one of the few healing potions he kept on hand. Nothing to do but wait until she woke up on her own. He wasn't going anywhere.


	2. The Man With Many Names

After a few minutes, the mysterious arrival began to stir. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Zak absently wished he had more healing potions with him to spare. While he would have no compunctions about leaving her here if she turned out to be evil-aligned, he was always corteous to his friends. Well, those friends he had, anyway. Whatever else he was, he was honorable, and fairness figured very highly among his values. That was why he hadn't called upon his sword's full might in the tavern. If he won fights, he'd do it on merit. That wasn't why he had fled. He had done that because he was well aware of a tavern crowd's propensity for turning on a single opponent, and wanted no part of it. Keeping one of his daggers near to hand, he sat back and waited. Opening her eyes, which, to his delight, turned out to be a very nice shade of green, complementing the black hair, she sat up, groaning, and looked around. Seeing him, she jumped and groped for the dire mace, but he held up his hand.

"I wouldn't," he advised her pleasantly. "Seeing as how I did just help you out, not to mention the fact that I could easily defeat you, in that condition." If she had been at her full strength, he would've given her only 18 to 1 odds, as opposed to his normal 20 to 1 against any one challenger. Her muscle tone was good enough to really swing that weapon, but the anger crackling in those eyes warned of a short temper. He was reminded of himself, with less control and skill. She sat back down, but glared fiercely at him.

"Who are you? Where am I? Answer me!" she snapped, her hand finding the dire mace's oak handle. Zak raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"With an attitude like that, it's no wonder you arrived here half dead. My name…is Zak Crimsonleaf. You've heard of me of course. This is a desert, as you may have observed by now." The woman's reply dripped contempt, but she loosened her grip slightly on the wood.

"I know it's a desert, but which desert? No, I've never heard of you in my life. And as for attitudes, watch your own or I'll-"

"-injure yourself even more trying to assault me," finished Zak, idly twirling his dagger between the fingers of his right hand. He gave her a contemptuous glance. "Don't try it. I'm not one to suffer fools gladly."

"If there's any suffering, it's you who'll be on the receiving end," she returned, letting go of the dire mace's handle, and trying to straighten the rather shredded dark studded leather armor she wore beneath what might have been a wizard's robe at one point, but was now just a scorched and blackened mess. Zak stiffened, and the dagger stopped it's twirling and was stowed in his left wrist sheath that nestled beneath the hardened leather bracer there.

Making a show of tolerance, he replied, "I should call you out for that, but I've already beat the hell out of somebody today, so you're off the hook. Be reasonable, lady. Alone, you'll be bleeding to death with no hope of finding your way to civilization. I can help you," Zak offered, reaching out a hand to help her up. She slapped it away.

"I never asked for your help, desert scum! You decided to help me by yourself." Zak's hand shot to his sword hilt, and he automatically tensed for battle at the insult she had offered. The third greatest effort he had made in his life was towards to contain his anger. The second was spent in taking his hand off the sword hilt and extending it to the woman again. The greatest effort he had ever made in his life was very nearly insufficient to contain the new eruption of rage when she slapped it away again. So she was going to be difficult about it. "That was a mistake," he promised grimly. "But, as you said, I did decide to help you, and I intend to stick to that. If there's one thing I can do well, it's protect people, even from their own stupidity."

"What about your own stupidity?" she retorted, grimacing in pain as she sat up all the way, and felt around a scalp cut that was bleeding freely, as most scalp wounds do, and making her hair sticky. Zak shrugged. She was touching on a issue that he knew all too well.

"Usually, I can handle that too, but once I get mad, well, a man as skilled as I am can be very dangerous. I might tell you that I never lost a fight. Even got run out of Silverymoon," he claimed proudly. She shook her head in dismay.

"You are one angry person. Who are you angry at?"

"Yes, I am." Zak admitted, sidestepping the second half of the question. "Well, is there anything that I can do for you at all?"

"Yes. You can lead me to a town or someplace where I can obtain half-decent help." She flipped a copper coin at him. His left hand snatched it out of the air, and he studied the faces. His own expression darkened. "This coin is from Zhentil Keep. This is the Black Network's mark."

"So?" she asked, her tone one of great exasperation. "You must have seen lots of coins like that while traveling, or do you suspect everybody you meet of being a Zhent?" Zak threw up his hands, a smile spreading across his face in spite of himself. Maybe his god was smiling, but this looked to provide some good excitement. Though he didn't know how much more 'excitement' he could handle, with his ring of cat's grace half depleted for the day.

"Well, I've found it's a good policy to assume that everybody is plotting against me from the beginning, but in your case there's no need. Why assume that the sky is blue, when I've eyes to see it for myself." He watched with great satisfaction as a series of strangled noises emerged from her throat, and her complexion began to redden even more than it already was with the heat. He went on as if nothing had happened.

"The thing that gets me is just that it seems newly minted is all, and those I don't see every day. Relax, I'll take you to a town." Indeed, he was beginning to become seriously rattled by meeting somebody with so much the same attitude as himself. Looking at the sort of person he believed he was from the outside was very disturbing, and he couldn't find the will to condemn the woman's behavior when it was almost an exact model of his own. _With that in mind_, he figured, _we should get along just fine_. He tucked the coin away in the bag of holding. He planned to whip the snot out of quite a few famous people, should he ever meet them, just for being that way, but was willing to share his supplies with somebody he hardly knew, on faith. He had tried to ponder these contrary views that coexisted within him once, but wound up with a headache.

"It's not every day that I meet people such as yourself while traveling through the desert," Zak observed. "What brings you here?" She hesitated for a second.

"I'm a apprentice mage. I was attacked by an enemy of my teacher, and barely managed to use my escape plan. I hired another mage to make me a ring of teleportation that would put me somewhere that was out of the way and not the Underdark. I suppose this was his idea of a joke." She was lying, which jangled his nerves through the ring of truth on his right hand, but Zak was in a tolerant mood now, and had full control of his temper.

"No kidding," he sympathized. "While, I was planning to sneak back into the town just across the way." He indicated the direction he had come. "You want to come with?" She smiled slightly, but there was no joy in the expression.

"Just get moving." Zak offered her his hand yet again. "I can get up fine, thanks," she refused, getting to her feet, but with a visible effort and her balance was uneasy. Some of the deeper wounds were still bleeding. Shaking his head, Zak dug out a healing potion from his bag of holding. If he had his way, she'd be paying for the whole bottle. Potions didn't come cheap, and this one was more than half empty.

"This is no good. Swallow that, and I'll see about getting us back into town. By the way, might I ask your name?" Taking a healthy gulp of the blue-green liquid, she wiped her mouth and stated clearly, "Tyrahae Blackmorn. Tyra will do." Her wounds began to mend, but slowed down and stopped far short of completely vanishing. "Tyra, then," Zak agreed, rising to his feet, and began laying out a plan in his head. First, he'd get Tyrahae some help, if he could, and then, he'd head north across the border to Tethyr.

"What is that ice doing in the middle of the desert?" Tray asked, gesturing at the results of his wand.

"Melting," Zak ventured. Indeed, even after so little time under the sun, the surface was already becoming slick and and uneven. She shot him a look, and tried to stride off, but stumbled and nearly fell. Zak didn't bother to hold out his hand a fourth time. If she wanted help, she'd ask for it. He could respect that. He resumed thinking. His little escapades certainly had put him on the most wanted list in the Dales and surrounding areas. Not to mention the Silverymoon incident. If she was from anywhere near that place, and the Zhent coin indicated that she might be, she should have heard of him. Either she didn't care about anybody famous or infamous, or was from somewhere else. Even considering the reputation developed during his travels, there were plenty of places that she might be from. He resolved to give her the benefit of the doubt for now, but Zak Crimsonleaf hadn't made it this far by being completely trustful. If she tried anything, he'd see that she got what was coming to her. That was the only way to deal with threats.

Tyrahae, however, was thinking about how to best complete her mission. She cursed her own ill fortune in giving Zak that coin in particular. As a matter of fact, she was from Zhentil Keep, and proud of it. Unfortunately, her assignment wasn't going as planned. It was only supposed to be a simple spy mission, but her cover had gone up in flames. She considered killing Zak and going into town alone, but decided that he posed more of a challenge than she could handle in her current state. She had no idea who he was, that much was true, but could make an educated guess. She had heard about the ruckus in Silverymoon, and reports were that the man responsible hadn't actually been arrested, but had left the city of his own free will. Just for the way he had spoken to her, she vowed silently, she'd put eliminating him as a top priority. The man was just infuriating to such an extent that for a minute or two she'd thought of just attacking him anyway, and to hell with her condition. Nursing dark thoughts, she followed along behind the mercenary, occasionally cursing silently at the sand for being so unstable.

Recently

Tyrahae shifted yet another book aside, sending up a cloud of dust, and peered under it for the notes she was looking for. Just more notes on spells and other wizardry junk. Wiping the dust off her forehead, she cursed the mage in question for being so disorganized. Though in a way, she realized belatedly, it constituted somewhat of a defense against exactly what she was trying to do. If nobody could find it but you, why bother to tidy up the place? But if she could just get hold of a plan, an outline, something that told her what was going on with this strange alliance between the gray dwarves of Underspires and the dark elves against the gold dwarves, and how the Zhents could profit from it, she could go back to Zhentil Keep and keep her head. Calling down a curse upon all wizards, she moved over to the next table, which appeared more promising, as it wasn't quite so dusty, and the notes about current plans would have been handled recently.

She skimmed over the titles on the reports on the top stack of papers, but it wasn't until the middle of the stack that she found what she was looking for. A clearly written plan of action jumped out at her like a trapdoor spider. The first lines gave her cause to whoop in triumph._ The alliance prospers. The drow were skeptical at first, but between their forces and those of the duergar, we have managed to turn the tide on the gold dwarves and send them into retreat. Another few weeks of this and we might drive them back to the Deep Kingdom. Then, presuming that everything goes as planned, we can rather handily eliminate the duergar forces as well. It's fortunate that drow are renowned for treachery. But just in case they are unable to finish off the Army of Steel, I have engaged the following mercenary groups._ Below was a list of some obscure sellsword companies, each with a price next to it. She whistled in a low tone when she saw how much just the first five were costing per tenday. Flipping through the next few sheets of paper, she found that there were about fifteen pages of notes.

Suddenly, the sheaf of paper was yanked from her hands, and went flying across the room towards the door, where the tower's owner stood before her, watching with a bemused expression. She leaped backwards, her hand going to her dire mace. The wizard walked forward slowly, his neatly brushed white hair and bushy eyebrows giving him an air of authority. "So, Maelora, I see you've found something interesting," he commented, commencing the opening gestures of a spell. She had gone by that name to gain entrance to the man's library, posing as a Zhent war wizard. It had taken all the charm she could muster, plus an offer of Zhentarim tribute to the cause of the alliance to get her this far, and in a scant five seconds all her plans were undone.

Tyrahae's gaze darted around the chamber for something she could use to get away fast. But the wizard finished the spell before she lit on anything like that, and an arrow dripping with acid leapt out at her. Snatching up a branch of ironroot, she blocked the projectile with the spell component, which resulted in a two-inch hole in the branch, growing larger by the second. Dropping the useless thing, she rapped what looked like a wizard's staff on the floor, while muttering,

"_Blackmorn._" Blackmorn, besides being her adopted surname, was engraved on the dire mace that took the staff's place. In fact, that was where she had gotten it from. The dual spiked ends had a faint reddish glow about them that hinted at greater damage-dealing ability than normal, and the hardened wood of the shaft was steady under her touch. It was a devastating weapon for those with the strength of arm to swing it. The spiked heads of dark steel shone coldly in the dim candlelight. She rushed forward, swinging the dire mace in an uppercut motion that would lacerate his neck. He merely held out a hand and spoke a single word, and she felt a hammerblow to the side of her head, and stumbled, while he stepped swiftly to the side.

Unable to stop, she tripped, and sprawled on the floor, her head swimming. A slight ringing in her ears warned of serious damage. She staggered back to her feat, and started her own spell. Guessing her strategy, the wizard began casting again, but a second too late. His next spell, which undoubtedly would have finished her off, merely drained the strength from her limbs once it got through her spell shield that had been thrown up. It was time to use the contingency plan. Removing one hand from the handle of her weapon, she took a cheap brass ring from her hand, and broke it in half. The teleportation spell contained therein spiraled out, and she heard the wizard curse, as his final spell slammed into her. This one was made up of fiery rays that scorched and stung as the walls of the library blurred and faded. Distracted by the pain, she lost her focus, and her vision blurred. She idly hoped that the person who had given her the contingency spell ring had actually intended for her to survive failing the mission, before another wave of pain swept over her, and she blacked out.

Now

Zak, having led Tyrahae on a ten-minute hike around to the north side of the city, peered over a sand dune, and tried to figure a way in through the gate without having the guards see him. There were four visible guards, two at the gate and two on the towers on either side of the gate. The two on the towers were armed with longbows, and would cut him down in a second given the order. The two at the gate he could handle, they only had the same kind of blades that he had faced at the tavern. Apparently they were the usual weapons of the city guards.

"Well?" Tyra hissed in his ear. "Anytime this century would be good."

"Keep your shirt on," Zak muttered back. Then, on instinct, he added, "Or maybe not, because it _has_ been a while-" as a slow grin spread across his face. In truth, he was a bit unnerved of his reactions in that direction, because whether it was sincere attraction or just his overbearing ego at work he had yet to figure out. A sudden wrenching pain in his arm made him reconsider his words.

"All right, maybe that was just a tad uncalled for, but that's no reason to-" The pain intensified. "Ouch! All right, all right already, just let go of my arm, ye barbarian!" Tyra released her death grip on his forearm, and fell back, breathing heavily from the exertion of the hike and the arm twisting. Coming to a decision, he took off his distinctive red headband and tucked it into a pocket, exposing the elven points on his ears. Next, he unslung the shield and sword from his back, and took off the bandolier that held them there, and stuck the shield into his bag of holding. He knew from experience that he couldn't expect to put anything else bigger than a snuffbox in the bag and have it fit, but it would serve for the time being. Taking the bandolier, he slipped one of the ends through the sheath's belt loop, and buckled it securely. That should probably serve to disguise him to most casual glances. The actions came easily to him, the result of long practice. This was not the first time he had punched a law enforcement individual, and it wouldn't be the last. "All right, here's the plan. The smart money says they won't recognize or care about me at all once we get up to the gates. You throw your arm over my shoulder and just be some injured person. They don't ask questions around here. Understand me?" Too tired to offer a biting reply, Tyra nodded, and they set off. As they approached the gate, one of the guards came to life to ask,

"What 'appened to 'er?"

"Dunno." Zak grunted, not stopping. "Figure to find out, maybe."

"Right." With that exchange, they were into the town again.

Zak led Tyrahae off down one of the narrow side streets that seemed to be an inbuilt feature of all settlements, however large or small. He'd be willing to bet money that in a town of ten buildings; back alleys would materialize out of nowhere as soon as nobody was looking. Crouching in the shadows, he put his hands on Tray's shoulders, and forced her to the ground. It wasn't difficult, and blood was starting to run out over her armor. The stress of running had undone some of the healing potion's work. Zak bit his lip. He didn't think she'd last too long without a competent healer, and that meant a priest.

"Sit here and be quiet. I'll be back with help," he instructed her, and before she had a chance to bite out a suitable reply, turned around and made for the other end of the alley. He walked slowly along, trying to form some semblance of a plan. Medical help wouldn't be easy to come by in this mess of a city. The walls hardly stretched two miles on one side, and chances were that the guard he had fought would recognize him if they even caught a passing glimpse. With that in mind, Zak mentally marked that whole quarter of the city as off limits. Good thing it only contained the inns and alehouses that catered to the caravans, though he never had gotten the full worth of his coppers before he was forced to scramble off. Lost money irked him to no end, but it wasn't worth his hide. The market might be a likely place, but that was chancy.

If the place had a temple about, that would be the first place he'd go to look, but he hadn't seen any towering structure upon entering the city. Still, there were almost always clerics of some god in a city, just not always the goodly kind, which Zak far preferred to deal with. Well, there was only one other place where he might find a priest of any kind, and that was by paying one of the knowledgeable types hereabouts to point him in the right direction. If his expenses went anywhere over a copper piece, he'd certainly have to ask Tyra to cover his expenses, and if that coin was any indication, whoever she was working for didn't give her much to spend on frills. Humming to himself, he raked his eyes over the crowd in the marketplace with a practiced glance. Merchant, merchant, caravan guard.

"Excuse me, Zak Crimsonleaf, but might I have a word with you?" a quiet voice that resonated with self-confidence asked from the side. Zak whipped around and confronted the voice's owner, a tall person swathed in a hooded desert robe. Zak could see stark white hair plaited in a loose queue disappearing down the back of the robe, and knew who he was dealing with.

"I don't deal with dark elves," he responded, his tone rock hard.

"I regret to correct your hasty assumption, but I am only _half_-drow," the man said, holding up a hand to stop Zak from moving off. "My name is Arakonza to some. I really hate to sound formulaic, but I hear you've been looking for me."

"And if I have been?" Zak queried, crossing his arms, and scanning the crowd for any sign of the 'enforcers'. Nothing.

"Then, you have found me. What is it you wish to discuss?"

"I need a clerical healing spell." Arakonza's eyes narrowed, and he began to think aloud, a amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Not for you, that much is for certain. You escaped entirely unharmed from that fray at the tavern. And you were not observed leaving with a friend. You must have found some poor soul struggling through the deep desert and offered them salvation. You most likely tried your own potion, but failed. A mercenary is never without at least one healing potion, and certainly not one of your means. The case is urgent, and the price will, correspondingly, go up." Zak frowned. He hated those who would capitalize on somebody else's misfortune. But he had to deal with them if he wanted to save Tyrahae's life.

"Hey listen, pal, I ain't gonna be extorted or nothing, so you just watch yourself, because I'm the one with a loaded crossbow." Arakonza gestured to the right. Zak looked over and saw one of the man's enforcers come around the corner, with a readied heavy crossbow. Looking back to Arakonza, he saw the man pointing left, and found a similar situation there. Finally, the half-drow pointed straight up. Shading his eyes, and looking into the sun, Zak saw a third man standing on the roof of the building.

"You'd have to be extremely fast to avoid three bolts at once," Arakonza figured, not altogether in the wrong. While Zak was confident that he could fight his way out, he wanted this to go as smoothly as possible. Trying to be reasonable, he asked,

"Well, do you have a priest or not?"

"As it happens," Arakonza said, grinning widely. "I know just the person." His teeth shone white against his dark complexion.

"It will of course necessitate a small fee to lead you to him, and he will no doubt want compensation for his work. How badly is your friend injured?"

"Lead me to the priest, and I'll tell him," Zak countered, hooking his thumbs in his belt. Arakonza shrugged.

"As you will. Come! Let us remove ourselves from the premises." He rose smoothly to his feet and beckoned Zak to follow. As they walked along, Zak asked, trying to sound flippant, and noting that the half-drow's guards didn't follow them,

"So, which god does this priest pay homage to anyway?" Arakonza held out his rough and callused right hand to his side without looking back.

"Money first, friend. Then information." Annoyed, Zak flipped him a silver piece, which he deftly vanished into the folds of his sleeves.

"The individual to whom I am leading you to is a devotee of Mask, Lord of All Thieves, as well as a quite excellent rogue in his own right. Not so high in his god's favor though. He may not be able to completely heal your 'friend' if they are gravely wounded," Arakonza informed Zak, stopping at one of the residential buildings and knocking on the door in a sequence of one, three, and two. Zak chewed his lip uneasily. Tyra's injuries had looked bad. But if he asked for another priest, the price would go up. Still, he didn't want to chance the lady dying before he could get any more information out of her, not to mention he didn't think much of stinginess when it came to saving lives. Just that he wouldn't stand to be ordered around by anybody was all.

"Do you know of any priest more powerful, just supposing that I wished to see them?" he asked tentively, already mourning the lost silver. Arakonza held up his hand.

"Wait a moment, and see the first priest first and the second priest second, if the first does not satisfy your request. It is always good to do things in the proper order." The door finally opened, and the thief gestured for him to follow. Zak ducked inside, thankful for the relief from the heat that the shade brought, though the air was more stagnant and oppressive. A somewhat dirty and unkempt northerner, though you could hardly tell it from his native garb and heavy sunburn, was slouched against the wall over in the farthest corner of the little room. A warped and twisted table occupied the center of the room, and a few chairs that looked as if they'd be better off chopped up for firewood were arranged around it. A set of stairs in the back led up to the higher levels. Arakonza ignored the doorman, who closed the door after them and went back up the stairs, and walked straight over to the other man.

"Ah, you are still here, I see," he congratulated him. "Haven't died yet?" A crooked smile spread over the man's face.

"Not yet. What do you need me for now?"

"This gentlemen has a companion in need of your aid, servant of Mask," Arakonza replied with extreme formality, though he was still smiling. Zak cleared his throat, and flipped a gold piece up in the air, letting the light coming in through the single window catch it. The supposed priest heaved himself to his feet. He went barefoot, like most people in the place, and ran a hand through hair like dirty sand that stood out wildly in all directions. He turned to Arakonza.

"How do I look?" he asked, striking a mock dramatic pose.

"Like you looked five minutes ago." Arakonza sniffed. "That good?" The man feigned astonishment. He held out his hand to Zak, who shook it firmly. "Name's Devlar Sorentann, swashbuckler extraordinaire. Just lead the way, and I'll see what I can do."

"Just this way, then," Zak said, and the two of them trailed along behind him as he opened the door again, and strode back out into the heat.

Tyrahae sat against the wall and tried to stay conscious. After that little excursion around, into, and through the city, her vision was growing hazy at the edges. But she never lost sight of her duty. She had to get back into the Underdark, and find out what in all the Hells was going on, whatever it cost her. And kill that little arrogant bastard who had the gall to jest around her! She scowled darkly at the sand, and muttered, "I hate my life!"

A Tenday Ago

Tyrahae slowly made her way through the huge cavern, taking care to treat with extreme deference any drow that happened by, and sneaking continual glances at the structure to which she was hurrying towards. The unnerving thing about all the traffic was that it was very quietly done. Even the duergar went about their business with a minimum of clanking. In contrast, Tyrahae felt very noisy and noticeable. Each time she dislodged a rock, she cringed at the tumbling that resulted. But there was nothing else for it. She had been given leave to wander through the city, and it was important that she should establish a set routine of looking around, so that the guards would perhaps become more relaxed. The majority of this cavern was occupied by the dark elves, and it was their wizardly building that she was making for. A massive fortress wall that enclosed the entire outpost, save for the tunnels that led out it's rear and back to some sinister drow city, could be seen from anywhere.

The stream of Underdark dwellers and a few merchants from the Realms Above flowing through the city noted well the power of the wizardly might the order wielded, and kept out of it's way. But wizards weren't the only ones who could cast spells. Unfortunately, she had been told not to cast any spells unless critically necessary, for if a wizard were to identify her magic as divine, she would be summarily executed. While neither the drow or duergar were famous for their justice, they at least had to keep up a pretense of justice, and something so obvious as lying about her occupation would earn her the death penalty. That, or carrying about two holy symbols, one of Cyric and one of Bane. She mentally checked to make sure her mental wards were still in place against undue intrusion from the once and perhaps future God of Strife. Up until her initiation into the ranks of Bane's clergy, life as a devotee of Cyric had been harsh, especially in Zhentil Keep, where although the temples to Bane's successor weren't desecrated or burned down, those who attended them wound up dead in the streets more often than not if they let their guard slip.

That had all changed when she had volunteered to infiltrate Bane's faithful as a spy for Cyric. Honestly, she had just accepted the mission because she was tired of scraping a living off of the dregs of everybody else's work. She was just a mid-level priestess, and while possessed of a fiery devotion, not too energetic about actually getting out and smiting a few people. But then Bane's faithful had also given her an assignment. They had heard rumors about somebody orchestrating the alliance between the dark elves and gray dwarves. Suspects weren't exactly populous, either. Naturally, such a force would run counterpoint to the Zhentish empire building that was going on, so they wanted information, and she was there to get it. So now she wore the robes of a Zhentish battle wizard.

There were no winds or breezes in the Underdark either. The stagnant air was oppressive and lay heavy on her. She shivered, but concealed it. Stepping up to the gate to the narrow stone walkway that led to the tower, she greeted the guard cordially, presenting her identification as an emissary of the Zhentarim, sent in good faith to make use of the library in exchange for certain compensations, and so on, and so on. The guard skipped by all that with a passing glance, because he knew the only thing that mattered was the seal of one of the alliance's top brass that had to be attached to the paper, and it was. With that, he opened the gates, and gestured for her to go in. Tyrahae refrained from making a scathing comment about his smug grin. Such a thing would be out of character for the courteous arcane artist she was portraying. Instead she smiled through gritted teeth, and went on ahead.

Now

The sound of footsteps coming closer stirred her out of her apathetic state. Using the wall as a prop, she struggled to her feet again, trying to grip the dire mace with at least a semblance of order. But her legs gave way, and she collapsed back onto the ground, her vision wavering uncertainly. She must have been hit harder than she had thought.

"Whoa! What happened to you?" she heard someone say from somewhere above her. She managed to mumble,

"Zak Crimsonleaf happened." Here was a chance to exact revenge, and still get whatever help Zak was undoubtedly bringing back, just like a fool.

"Crimsonleaf!" one of the men exclaimed. "The guy who just busted his way out of that one tavern and vanished over the walls?"

"The very same. He just dragged me over here from the desert and left me to wait for some help. But for all I care, you can cut his bloody head off. He should be back anytime." One of the men pointed out into the streets.

"Look at that, Nyame, he's coming right now! This is perfect! Come on, we'll lay in an ambush."

"But Arakonza said-" the second guard tried to interfere. The first one made a slicing motion with his hand.

"He doesn't care whether or not somebody who hasn't paid him coin for protection from us goes down, you know that. Besides, he's probably loaded with loot." The guard drew his sword, and he and his companion put their backs to the wall, waiting to intercept the hapless mercenary. Tyrahae tensed in anticipation of seeing the look on Zak's face when he was cut down, as he came around the corner. She was willing to bet that it would be something to remember.

Leading Arakonza and Devlar, Zak knew something was up when he heard the sound of swords being unsheathed. His ears were more sensitive than those of other races, and he used it to his advantage. He drew his sword and took out a dagger. He'd have retrieved his shield from the bag of holding, but he didn't want to be mobbed by angry oasis dwellers. He took the corner much wider than usual, spoiling the ambush, but it was still two against one.

"Let's see what you've got, sellsword!" one of his attackers taunted him, flashing his sword around. Zak smiled. It was not pleasant to look at.

"You have a lot of guts," he commented calmly. Then, with sudden vehemence, he sprang forward, roaring, "Let's see what they're made of!" He took them both on at once, sword and dagger working hard to keep him on his feet. The side with the sword was much more successful, and soon, he felt the familiar _clang! _of the opponent's blade being caught by his own. But the owner of the caught blade was alerted to that tactic, and he quickly stepped in so close that Zak was forced to hold his sword too far away to apply enough strength to break the scimitar. He exerted all the force in his right arm to shove the second attacker's sword down far enough to step on. The hilt thudded into the dust with the force of his stomp, and he whipped around, thrusting the tip of the dagger into the first enforcer's throat. The man went down, gurgling and spewing blood onto the ground.

_Bloody Hell!_ He'd crossed the line and now he had no choice but to keep killing if he wanted to stay alive. The second guard came at him, but he pulled another dagger from his right bracer, and hurled it with only three feet to the target, to have it clang off the scimitar in a clean deflection. The man had gotten his blade back from the dust while Zak hadn't been looking. Arakonza and Devlar had not made an entrance, and although he didn't think the half-drow would deliberately have him harmed, neither would he interfere. If Zak won, then the men had been taught their lessons. If they won, then Zak was a liability. Too bad he didn't dare look back to flip them another coin or two. He hoped Tyrahae was still alive, because it'd be a hell of a thing if she had croaked while he was gone. The two combatants met in a clashing of steel. Zak's shorter blade could exert greater pressure, but the scimitar was faster. Honestly though, it wasn't all the great a challenge to stay ahead of the guard's frenzied parries and slashes. He was okay, but Zak was just so much better.

Looking to end the fight fast, Zak twisted the abruptly interlocked blades around and around, allowing the foe no opportunity to end the cycle. After two or three times around, he half breathed out, and, taking hold of the hilt of his weapon with both hands, disarmed the man with a intricate twist within a twist, sending the sword flying. Acting fast, he quick-stepped forward, and cracked the flat of his blade against the man's temple. As his dazed opponent sat down heavily, Zak retrieved his daggers. Stepping over, he demanded, "Well? Any other insults you want to throw?" The man shook his head painfully. "Good. Now get your miserable carcass out of my sight." The enforcer took off running, not looking back. "Oh yeah, I'm just that good." Zak commented to himself, nodding. Satisfied that he had stood up against another assault on his pride, he looked back to the three others. Devlar was kneeling besides Tyrahae, but hadn't done anything, and Arakonza leaned against the wall. Catching Zak looking at him, he shrugged, and held both hands up in a gesture of helplessness. Muttering a curse under his breath, Zak cleaned his sword on the dead man's clothes, and shoved it back in the sheath. "I hate it when this happens," he groused to the air.


	3. Negotiations Break Down

Seeing that Devlar had yet to do anything about Tyrahae's condition, Zak walked over and asked bluntly,

"How much?" Devlar scrutinized the situation carefully, and estimated,

"Twenty gold pieces. I'm not really good at this healing business, I just took it up a short while ago, so I can't do anything further. She'll live, though, which is more than I can say right now." The rogue took out his priestly symbol of Mask, and waited to be paid. Arakanzar merely leaned against a wall and watched with a critical, detached, perspective. Zak knew that the price was actually quite fair, but instinct drove him to bargain a bit.

"How's ten? I'm not exactly loaded, you know," he suggested, which wasn't exactly the best bluff, for if Arakanzar had indeed heard of him, and that was odd this far south, then he knew that Zak was quite well off.

"Sir! Surely price is not an object when a person's life is at stake?" Devlar protested theatrically, flinging out his arms in abject despair. Zak sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. The thief knew where to hit hardest, and Zak wasn't willing to let somebody die over the sake of gold pieces he could earn again.

"Fine, here's half your fee," he said, belatedly counting out ten gold coins from his bag of holding and slapping the mass into Devlar's outstretched palm.

"Now get to it." The thief merely bowed and, laying his hand on one of Tyra's wounds, began a prayer to Mask. Meanwhile, Zak occupied himself in searching the enforcer's body for anything of value. This was always unpleasant, and was made even more so by the fact that the man had gone and bled all over his robe from the gash in his neck. He found a coin purse inside one of the man's pockets, with fourteen silvers, three gold, and seven coppers. Not the most wealthy, but it'd go towards the second half of Devlar's fee. Looking closer, Zak also discovered two _jambiyas_ tucked away in his robe, and one of them came with a well-made sheath. Devlar's healing chant rose to a crescendo behind him, then stopped. He heard a pained groan as Tyrahae regained conciousness, and some scraping as she stood up. Taking both daggers, meaning to see if the one was magical later, Zak turned back to stare into Tyra's newly healed visage. Her injuries were mostly mended, but her armor was not. She had simply discarded the slashed and scorched remains of the wizard's robe, it being beyond repair. The resulting exposure of skin sent the corner of Zak's mouth curling up. If carried too far, this sort of thing could be dangerous, but considering that he lived with danger almost every day, he had to admit that this could be trouble.

"You might want to get some new armor before you're sunburned in places it's liable to chafe," he recommended in a carefully neutral tone. She leaned in close, and growled,

"You just watch yourself. I don't like owing people, and it's a lot easier to simply kill you then pay it back. So instead, I'll just warn you that you'd be doing well to get as far away from me as possible." Zak met her stare, and raised an eyebrow.

"We'll see about that. You could have tried to plant a dagger in my back just now. Why didn't you?"

"Because Arakonza," Here she gestured over her shoulder towards the crime lord, who showed no reaction save to turn to Devlar and begin a side conversation with the rogue,

"Said he wanted us both alive for a business proposition. If he hadn't, you'd already be dead. So watch your back, because at the soonest possible opportunity, there'll be a knife in it." She snatched the second _jambiya_ from his grasp, and stuck it in her belt. Hefting the dire mace with new strength, she turned and strode off towards Arakonza, who gestured for Zak to follow. On his way past Devlar, he slipped him the remainder of the promised coins, murmuring,

"For services rendered." Heading down the street, now a subject for a few staring eyes, the mercenary shook his head. She could've tried, but he had heard her as she came up, and would've foiled any attempt to stab him from behind. Even if she had aimed for his neck, he could've spun around fast enough to stop it. He had guessed, correctly, that she would know the dire mace made to much noise to swing silently. As they walked along, Zak tapped Tyrahae on the shoulder.

"What!" she snapped, looking back. Zak took his dark green cloak out of his bag, and proffered the garment silently. Muttering angrily, she took the cloak without so much as a thank you, and went on without another backward glance. Zak shrugged. His mood was changing back to a good one, because if anything, a challenge was an opportunity to prove his valor.

They reached Arakonza's place in a couple minutes, and when they had both seated themselves around the table, with Devlar holding his crossbow on the pair of them from his corner, the half-drow assumed the posture of a merchant, and remarked to Tyrahae,

"Perhaps you will be so kind as to compensate us for the healing you just received?" Zak suppressed a chuckle with some difficulty. Arakonza was good at being greedy, that was for sure. Charging both him and her for the healing spell. He wasn't above a little payback.

"What, he didn't pay you already?" Tyra asked, jerking her thumb towards Zak.

"Isn't it the sort of thing that you'd do?" she continued, this time speaking directly to him.

"When the person who found the healing is constantly harangued by the person who benefited from the results, I find that a situation to put it on their tab. You can have that copper piece back if you need it, and if that still isn't enough, well, we'll have to talk about laying off the whole 'wanting to rip out my tongue and use it as a belt' thing." Zak responded lazily, totally at ease. She ground her teeth for a moment, but relented, perhaps realizing that she had to give in sometimes.

"All right, how much?" Arakonza smiled beautifically.

"A mere thirty gold pieces should cover such fine work, should it not?" Tyra looked down her nose at him.

"Your mistake was to heal me first without asking payment. You'll get what I give you, in this case, five gold coins. I'm not exactly in tip-top shape, and I think I can judge that better than you." Unconciously, she pulled Zak's cloak tighter about herself. The half-drow sighed dramatically.

"If you believe such a fee is adequate, then I suppose I, as a poor, but honest purveyor of goods, must trust you." Tyra was startled, but hid it well as she pushed over the requisite amount of coin. Zak knew that he had accepted the asking price because he'd be getting more coin out of her later.

"Well, what now?" she asked resignedly.

"Now is when you two are free to leave this town. I believe that Zak already has passage on a caravan that is leaving tomorrow. You however, m'lady, will have to talk price with me for getting onto that same caravan."

"I am NOT leaving with that pointy-eared sword nut!" Tyrahae burst forth vehemently. Zak stiffened at the slight, but kept his hands on the table, in plain view. His payback would come later.

"Very well," Arakonza agreed.

"Then stay here until the next carvan comes through. But don't expect further protection from my people. If you don't want my services, I fail to see why I should extend you the offer for however long it takes you to leave." He rose, and made as if to leave. Zak did his best not to show his interest in the affair, but he really did want to get Tyra's story. He didn't particularly care if she was a Zhent or not, but there was just something about her that piqued his curiousity. And it wasn't all the damaged armor, though admittedly it was part of it. What could he say? He certainly wasn't going to back out now.

"Wait." Tyrahae said, her voice sullen.

"Let's talk." For once, her scowl faded, and she did her best to act civilly. Arakonza turned around and came back.

"Oh, well, another, more spiteful person than I might simply refuse to deal with you altogether now," he informed her archly.

"But I, being of unmistakably generous nature, will consent to hear you out." Zak rolled his eyes.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, O Arakonza the Unmistakably Generous, I think I'd just as soon find a place to stay and find my caravan again," he excused himself, casually grabbing his cloak back from Tyra. Devlar made a high-pitched whistle from his corner, and commented,

"Hey there, Ty. After the meeting, I'll show you my Rapier of Swashbuckling. I'm thinking you'll be mighty impressed, if you catch my drift." Tyrahae plucked the _jambiya_ from her belt, and hurled it at the laughing rogue with an overhand snap of the wrist. Quick as lightning, Devlar's hand flashed out and caught it less than an inch from his forehead. He plowed right on ahead, ignoring how close he had come to certain death with a nonchalance that left Zak astounded.

"Whoa! Bad show there! Can't wait to get your hands on me, eh? I know just the type…" Whatever else he was going to say died on his tongue as Arakonza held up his hand.

"Inciting the customers is bad for business," the half-drow reminded the rogue, who ceased to be amused and swallowed hard.

"And if you want to continue in my employ, you will save such things until after we have concluded our business. Then you can do that all you want, but for now, keep your rapier tucked away."

"Sure thing!" Devlar agreed cheerfully, and went back to playing with his crossbow, but surreptiously making lewd gestures at Tyrahae when he thought she was looking. Zak decided to hang around and see how things went. Arakonza certainly wouldn't mind. Leaning against the wall, and taking a swig from his hip flask, he settled in for a bit of a wait.

"What'll it cost for me to get onto this caravan, then?" Tyra asked, crossing her arms.

"Depends on how much you've got." Arakonza studied the fingernails on his right hand, feigning indifference.

"How about if I've just got seven gold, five silver, and three copper coins to my name?" Tyrahae inquired, depressedly. For the first time since Zak had seen him, the half-drow showed some signs of anxiety. He frowned, and let fall the self-assured manner in which he had been conducting the negotiations so far. Zak didn't blame him.

"Well…" he said hesitantly, as if trying to figure out whether he could leap over a deep pit,

"I certainly _hope_ that you have more than that, because to be honest," he laid both his hands on the table,

"If in fact that's how much you have, you're simply not worth extorting from." At the words, 'to be honest' Zak laughed quietly to himself, but by the end of the sentence, he was back to biting his lip. He could pay Tyra's way in, but such an act was not likely to endear him to her, and he saw little chance of getting it back. But, he had to make a descision soon, or Arakonza was liable to take matters into his own hands. Devlar had stopped trying to get Tyra to notice him, and had laid the crossbow over his arm, sighting down the bolt right between her eyes. The rogue was in deep concentration, and if he fired now, Zak could tell he wouldn't miss, not even if Tyra moved before he fired. He stepped in.

"Let's say, hypothetically," he began, hoping to stall for time until he could figure out something else do to, but Arakonza held up a hand.

"Let's not say 'hypothetically'," he cautioned, sounding somewhat pained.

"Not only is that at least as formulaic as the other phrase that I mentioned, but there's no one here but us, so you may feel perfectly free to refrain from using the word. If I said that hypothetically I was a powerful wizard, you would react in the same manner as you would have if I hadn't used the word, for example, so please, just speak freely."

"Are you a wizard?" Zak asked guardedly, for spells were something that he had the most trouble guarding against. He had invested all his skill in armed combat, not spell-battle, and consequently, had no knowledge whatsoever of spells, save that he knew spellcasters could do just about anything. Arakonza's devil-may-care manner made a return appearance, as he easily slipped back into the personage of the helpful merchant. Devlar let the crossbow drift away from Tyra's face, and Zak relaxed a tiny bit.

"That information really has no bearing on this conversation, and besides, as I said," The half-drow shrugged eloquently, which, beneath the heavy robe, was a small miracle in and of itself.

"You'll take care now to treat me as if I was one, whether I am, or not. Now, what were you going to say before I was forced to interrupt?"

"Let's say, then, that _in reality_," Zak began, taking care to ensure that he kept himself on firm ground,

"I have enough coin to buy Tyra's way into the caravan. Let's suppose," he went on, warming to the subject, and starting to regain confidence,

"That I'm on good terms with the caravan master, and could probably get her in without paying as much." The rough beginnings of a plan began to take shape in his mind. The odds were much against the half-drow if it came down to combat. After all, Devlar only had one crossbow shot, and he was sure he could get Arakonza before the wizard, if that's what he was, could cast a spell. The man's threat was nearly forgotten beneath Zak's overpowering belief in himself, but not entirely. Arakonza leaned back in his chair. A loud creak resounded from within the overstressed wood, but he ignored it, and replied,

"Were you to, in reality, buy the lady's way in, it would cost you the same as it would her. That is to say, fifteen gold pieces." Zak kept his entire savings in the bag of holding, which was why it couldn't have held much more than his shield, harp, and a few other knickknacks he had picked up. He had considered, on occasion, stashing them away someplace, but didn't like leaving it out of his sight, and if he ever needed money in a pinch, it didn't do him any good then. He could easily afford fifteen gold pieces, but if he was anything, he was a skinflint.

"Fifteen?" he questioned, disbelivingly. His plan was smoothing out, but he still needed time to think. Tyra hadn't said a word during the entire exchange, and was still sitting in her chair, looking bored with the proceedings.

"What do you think?" he addressed her, flashing his most trusting smile. She sniffed disdainfully.

"You clearly don't know when to let well enough alone," she said, shaking her head in dismay. "I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why you want to help someone who has sworn to kill you, and don't think that I won't!" she added, her latent rage beginning to flare back up again under the prompting. Devlar aimed his crossbow again, but Arakonza motioned for him to leave things be. The half-drow appeared to be enjoying Tyrahae's attitude towards Zak immensely. The mercenary didn't intend to give him the satisfaction, but it was hard to get Tyra to calm down.

"Never my intention to bribe you with help," he hastened to assure her, taking a step back.

"But if I want to waste my money, what's the harm in letting me do it? It doesn't cost you anything." That got her attention, and she thought it over for a moment.

"Fine," she decided scornfully.

"Throw away gold pieces. See if I care." She returned to her relaxed position, and resumed her examination of the tabletop. Zak turned back to Arakonza, his plan almost complete. Almost would have to do, it seemed, for he was out of ideas to stall with.

"Hey listen now," he began,

"I can tell that if the best you can do is to extort people for fifteen gold pieces, and don't think I won't bargain it down some, you're just rotting away in this dirtbag town. I've never known somebody like you to be content to do that kind of thing. Sure, it's easy money, but the boredom has gotta just hang on you. Hey, Devlar," The thief sat up and dug a finger into his ear at the mention of his name.

"Do you think you could stand another few months rotting away here?"

"Well, I could, but yeah, I'm just going out of my mind with boredom," he confessed, laying aside his crossbow, and yawning mightily.

"You have any idea just how much more I was getting back in Calimport?"

"I do, so don't talk about it." Arakonza interjected tiredly. Turning back to Zak, he said,

"I fail to see how our emotional state figures into it." Devlar sat back down, and retrieved his crossbow, but didn't bother to aim it even absently.

"Well, how about if you leave with us? Put together a package deal for you, Dev, and Tyra. Once you've negotiated with the caravan master to get all three of you onto the caravan, you divide the sum by three, and bill me for whatever Tyra's third is, how about?" Arakonza acknowledged the truth that lay in Zak's proposal with a nod.

"I agree that we are growing complacent in this town. In point of fact," he conceded,

"We have only been here for a couple months, and weren't planning on staying long. But it was rather nice to relax after our somewhat hectic departure from Calimport." By the way in which the half-drow referred to that last bit, Zak guessed that he had been run out, and thought cynically, _What do you expect from a city overrun with guilds already. They don't need competition._

"Yeah! Let's get out of this nowhere place!" Devlar put in from his reclining position over on the window ledge.

"I wanna get something other than a handful of dust and some silvers when I go out on reconnaisence." Arakonza wasn't going to be rushed into anything though, and idly said,

"Dev, let me think." Zak took his seat again, since it was clear he was back at the table, and offered Tyra the cloak back, but received such a venomous glance that he folded it and stuffed it back into the bag of holding instead. If she'd rather walk about like that, fine, he figured resignedly.

"I have some modifications to put into that proposal of yours." Arakonza said, standing up and walking about.

"I will make arrangements for the three of us to be added to the caravan, _and_ for Tyra to pick up some new armor on the way out. In exchange, you two get to work for _me_ for a few jobs, as well as pay her third, plus the cost of the armor, plus the standard fee for protection, which I have extended to both of you in advance, and didn't mention before." Zak winced beneath the steady barrage of charges.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he protested, not at all interested in paying for all of that, but even less interested in working for Arakonza.

"First of all, neither of us are gonna do your work for you, not even if that's the only way that we all leave together," he established firmly.

"Second, if you want to leave here because of my proposal, I'd say that you owe _me_ for it, and you should knock off the cost of the armor. Third," He paused dramatically here, and his expression darkened, and eyes narrowed.

"If you suggest that I really needed 'protection', you're a lot stupider than I thought. Now, I'll agree that I owe you for _acting_ on my suggestion, so you can put the cost of the armor back in, on further consideration." Zak belatedly smote himself for not thinking of that before, but there wasn't anywhere to go now but forward.

"I'm still not sure that I'll be acting on your suggestion, mind you." Arakonza corrected him.

"While I do feel that a move to a bigger city would be beneficial for me, that is the only reason I have to leave. I also have plenty of reason to stay, and with my lifespan, another few months won't matter in the long run. Very well, I won't charge either of you for protection, or the armor, but in exchange, I insist you take on _one_ job for me."

"And that would be?"

"Well, if I'm to be departing, I can just steal anything I'd like, since I won't be around to arrest, so I'd like you to help Devlar rob the strongbox over at the best inn in this place, the Blunted Saber. And while you're at it, do the same for the next-best inn, right beside it."

"That's two jobs!" Zak protested angrily. Arakonza shook his head.

"No, it's two things to do on one job. You can interpret it differently, but since I happen to be the one in charge, it's my interpretation we'll be using. Are we agreed?" The crime lord extended one obsidian hand across the table.

"Fine." Zak agreed grudgingly, taking the proffered hand and shaking it firmly.

"I'll do it. Now get started on finding some armor and getting all of us onto that caravan. We're leaving tomorrow." He stood up, and without waiting to see what Tyrahae thought, stepped back out to see if Anbory was to be found.

After Zak had left, after a nod from Arakonza, Devlar took the bolt out of the crossbow, and pulled the trigger. At the _crack!_ of the string, Tyrahae sat bolt upright from her slumped position, and had stood up, tipping the chair over, and grabbed the dire mace before she realized what was going on. Arakonza was all business.

"You want to kill Crimsonleaf, I can arrange that too," he said confidently, his attitude having shifted yet again to quiet power. Tyra sat back down.

"How?" she asked warily. He gave her a knowing smile.

"I'll let you in on a little secret. I am in fact a wizard, and can end one half-elf's life quite handily. From a distance. Without any risk to you or me."

"What'll it cost? You know exactly how much I have." Tyra murmured, somewhat in doubt of this good fortune. Odds were that he'd offer Zak a similar deal for protection from her, yet…he seemed somewhat honorable…in his own way. He'd carry out a contract, but you couldn't expect more than that, and probably, she concluded, not even that. It was best to assume that he'd try something like sell Zak and her out to each other and try to come out ahead.

"That's the good part. It doesn't have to cost you anything but information." Arakonza explained.

"I just want to know what brought you here, how you came to meet Crimsonleaf, and what you plan to do. Oh, and I get anything valuable I find on his corpse. And I'll need you to take on an additional job for me once we arrive in the next city. Make that two jobs, in fact, since you seem to hate him so much. I know how that is." Tyrahae pondered the deal, and found more than a little risk in accepting it. Arakonza could sell that kind of information for a great deal of money in most major cities, but she figured that he wouldn't quite yet, not until he found a buyer who would pay to keep it quiet. Her superiors wouldn't be happy if they found out, but if she still managed to accomplish her original mission, they'd get over it. It was a gamble, to be sure. Arakonza noticed her weighing the pros and cons, and added another incentive.

"I'll let you keep his sword." That tipped the scale.

"We are agreed," she nodded graciously.

"I look forward to more of such profitable exchanges in the near future." Rising, she asked, looking around,

"Do you mind if I stay here until you get that replacement armor?" Arakonza shrugged.

"If you don't mind hanging around with Devlar, feel free," he invited.

"I'll be out for most of the day. Oh, and watch any valuables you might have forgotten to mention. Dev has a bad habit of winding up with things that don't belong to him showing up at the most inopportune times." She glared at the rogue, who pulled out his two trouser pockets to show that they were empty, flashing what he thought was a rakish grin. The wizard stepped out, leaving Tyra and Devlar alone. He cleared his throat, and tried again,

"So, m'lady, if you're not going to be doing anything else today, I think that you'd be much more comfortable upstairs. It's got a few more furnishings then this." He indicated the firewood chairs and table with a broad sweeping gesture that took in the whole of the room.

"I'd be more than happy to show you around the place, including a few parts that most people don't get to see," he went on suggestively. That, typically, got a rise out of Tyra, and she stepped forward, ready to bash Devlar's skull in with the dire mace.

"All right, wait! I'm sorry!" he blurted out, collapsing into a fit of giggles.

"It's just that…it's so easy to provoke that kind of thing….do you have any idea how hard it is to get people other than you and Zak to do that?"

"I could take a wild guess," Tyra muttered, turning one of the chairs around so that it's back was to the rogue, and sitting down again. Calming down, Devlar went up the stairs himself at a good clip. Some sounds of rummaging about drifted down from above her head, and Tyra idly hoped that the ceiling wasn't going to fall in.

"Check out my rapier, eh?" Devlar came rushing back, holding, to her mild surprise, an actual rapier in a glossy black leather sheath. It was the first thing in the place she had seen that looked well cared for. The thief noticed her inspection of the weapon, and whipped it out of the scabbard, putting it through a few flashy flourishes.

"What say you to that?" he preened, attempting to put his hair into some semblance of order. Tyra made a sound of derision.

"Do you keep your brains in that scabbard along with the rapier?" she inquired sarcastically.

"Because you must have problems with them falling out every time you sneeze." Taking no offense, Devlar guffawed mightily.

"Well, at least you haven't got that problem, for from where I'm standing, I can't see any brains at all in that fine skull of yours," he returned. Immune to his taunting by now, Tyra remained sitting. The day was going to be extremely long.

"Hey Anbory!" Zak called, rushing over to where his caravan was settled in for the night. The Tethyrian turned around, an expression of surprise on his face that quickly gave way to laughter.

"Zak! How'd you make it back?" Zak flipped back an overhanging lock of hair, and did his best to look good.

"It takes more than a few silver-piece guards to stop Zak Crimsonleaf," he proclaimed.

"What's the news hereabouts?" Anbory pointed towards the caravan master, a halfling who was overseeing the stabling of the camels with a critical eye and occasionally correcting someone's work.

"Brenim has got all a few of us keeping watch on the goods, and the rest are probably at an tavern or out looking at whatever's for sale. I was just going to see if I could get my waterskin refilled. It's near bone dry." The guard held out the waterskin in question, and shook it. A sad little sloshing noise came from inside. Zak suddenly felt very thirsty, and was reminded that he had had three drinks all day, and two just within the last hour.

"I think I'll come with," he decided. There wasn't any sense in dying of thirst before being killed by Tyrahae.

Arakanzar Z'tran, for that was his real name, entered the shop of the only purveyor of arms and armor in the town, whom he knew quite well, and who owed him a few favors for convincing the town guards not to evict him at various times for selling some questionable merchandise, namely, weapons that had had the cracks painted or silvered over and wound up breaking off in the sheath. Nobody really cared for him, but Arakanzar found that he did have some good items to sell, and his order today would tax the shopkeeper to the limit. The man in question, who was currently in the process of painstakingly binding up a hilt where the wood had cracked apart, looked up and started at the sight of Arakanzar. He quickly laid aside the work in progress, and greeted the wizard.

"Hey, Arakonza, good to see you. What'll it be this time, eh? You want a deal on that saber that just came in?" He gestured at what was probably the best sword in the place, a curved cavalry saber with a finely worked silver basket hand-guard. He twisted a few hairs in his scraggly beard, grinning with the few teeth left in his jaw. The wizard shook his head.

"No, not that. What I need today is a complete set of studded leather armor. If you have one in black, that would be even better." Arakanzar knew that that color would soak up heat better than any other, and took a small pleasure in the fact. The man winced.

"Ah, you've stuck me for the one thing I ain't got right now," he lamented. "But I can give ya something close enough. I just picked up this chainmail from that bandit group that passed by a couple tendays ago. You remember him right? Ticked off a few people and yer men stuck him full of bolts?" Arakonza nodded. While the town was in theory, open to all, if bandits had the audacity to stop by, they could expect to lose a few people in the process, but this band had been desperate. He didn't like desperate people too much. They didn't have anything to extort, and they were liable to try stupid things to survive.

"Well, the sap must've been a high-ranked fella, cause this here chainmail 'as an enchantment of cooling on it. Me first magic item! Ye should be proud to purchase it." Arakonza clapped the man on the shoulder.

"Excellent work, but somehow, I don't think the person whom I need it for can afford such things. Have you anything lower in price?"

"Just the ordinary chain shirt that's been here for who knows how long. It's nothin' fancy, but the price is right. Or ye kin get that cracked breastplate over in the corner. I've fixed it so they won't figger it's broke until they're out." The wizard nodded once in agreement.

"Name your price for the chain shirt."

"For you, ten gold."

"How about eight."

"Make it nine."

"Then we agree." Arakonza counted out nine gold pieces from his coin purse, and laid them on the dusty countertop, and the proprietor stumped back behind it to fetch the chain shirt. Taking the armor, the wizard tossed off a salute before leaving the shop. The owner chuckled to himself.

"Funny thing about that fella. I just 'ad that other person askin' bout him today. Good thing they don't pay as well 'as 'e does."


	4. A New Day Dawns

_Zak Crimsonleaf knew he was dreaming because he didn't have _Echoing Courage_ in his hand. Instead, he was holding his previous weapon, a dull Chondathan steelsword engraved _Flashfyre_ that was possessed of a few nicks in the blade and didn't shine when placed in bright light. It wasn't much, but it had been his. He was standing outside the city of Scardale, in the midst of falling rain. There was no thunder or lightning, just the unceasing patter of the raindrops to keep him company. His leather jacket was already soaking wet, and his boots were fast beginning to leak, but he scarcely noticed. He remembered this occasion well. It was when he had been shown the gate out of Scardale because of his first killing of somebody in the city. _

_He closed his eyes, remembering how the fear on Kyle's features had been permenantly frozen there by death. For a moment, the rain running down the length of the blade turned deep red as he recalled how his weapon had gone right through the man, sinking in to the hilt. How Kyle's last breath had rattled it's way out of his chest, flecking his lips with blood. How a silence had descended upon the crowd. He opened his eyes, shaking his way out of the shadows of guilt and sorrow. The long road south beckoned ahead of him, and the stout log gate into the city proper was closed behind him. He brandished his weapon at the unfeeling timber, and rasped quietly, his voice hoarse with emotion, _

"_I swear here and now, I'll be back, and all Faerun will know my name, and respect it. I swear on my sword. Zak Crimsonleaf's word is given." _

_Sheathing the weapon, he turned on his heel, and trudged off southwards, his boots sinking into the muddy ground with each step. The rain intensified, turning the dark green of the woods into a unending gray mist. Wiping the traces of tears from his eyes, he refused to let anything dampen his anger or his sense of purpose. This was a setback, a mere setback. No one could deny him forever. A niggling thought in the dim corners of his mind whispered that he was lying to himself, and that maybe everybody else was right, but he shoved it away with such violence that small pinpricks of pain blossomed at his hands, where his fingernails were biting into the palms. Unclenching his fists with great strength of will, he spotted a figure ahead, standing under a tree. He should've known he couldn't leave without speaking to her. She was probably the only person in the town he held no ill will against. _

_His mother, Talia Crimsonleaf, watched him approach, with sad brown eyes framed in a face that was set in a semi-permenant mournful expression. Her black hair fell to shoulder length and stopped. The feature that was most striking about her, was that her right arm ended at mid-bicep. The hideous scar that she had gotten when the arm was lost was hidden from view by a pinned-up sleeve, but Zak could picture it well enough in his mind's eye. _

"_Well?" he asked, unashamedly. _

"_Afraid to look at me?" She shook her head. _

"_No," she murmured. _

"_But I am afraid of what you have become." Stepping under the tree with her, Zak threw back his hood, and smoothed out his own unruly locks. _

"_What I have 'become', as you say, is what I should have been all along but was too scared to be. What I have 'become' is a man that takes no insult from anyone. But what I remain, is someone who believes in doing the right thing." The moon elf spread her hand helplessly. _

"_You are set on this course, then, I see. I can only guess what drove you to it, but I hope it was not me." _

"_It wasn't." Zak reassured her, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. _

"_Never you. I'll be back sometime soon with some money to go towards…" he trailed a trifle self-conciously as he glanced towards the remains of her arm. He made a few meaningless gestures, and chuckled a tad, the sound blending bitterness and humor. _

"_It's strange really, how we contradict ourselves," he considered ruefully. _

"_I…" he tried to start, but couldn't think of anything to follow. Perhaps there was nothing else to be said. His hand hung in the air like a dead thing. But he couldn't just leave without not saying anything more. _

"_I-" he began again, but this time it wasn't lack of things to say that made him stop. He heard the distant twang and instant hiss that marked an arrow being loosed. Moving faster than he had ever moved in his life, he grabbed Talia's shoulders and flung her slight frame to the ground. The arrow had been meant for her heart, but Zak was facing forward, not backward, and it took him in the right ribs, piercing the chain shirt he wore and knocking the breath out of him. A fiery explosion of pain seared through the point of impact, and each breath he took hurt. As he felt the impact of the ground, the pain spread out to overwhelm his senses. His dream world dissolved into a blank white space._

"Ah……mornings." Zak slowly sat up, holding his head. He had a throbbing headache, which wasn't surprising. He had only been in reverie for four hours, and that wasn't nearly enough time to work off the effects of the strong drink he had been imbibing before he nodded off. He had gone back to the tavern that he had previously been at, and gotten the rest of his five coppers' worth and a few more besides. He often wandered through the memories of his times back in the Dalelands, and once he came out of it, resolved once more to win the respect of the world at large. But that didn't mean he'd smack someone down just for a casual joke. Not if they knew each other. Contrary to popular belief, he had some, well, all right, just one friend, who, as it happened, he was traveling to meet. But until then, he was stuck with a Tyrahae, Arakanzar, Devlar, and the bill for company.

Standing up from his cross-legged stance, he stretched his aching muscles, and yawned. The sun hadn't yet risen over the horizon, but the eastern sky was lightening. Dawn was near. He supposed he might as well head off and see about Arakanzar's progress. He knew that the half-drow only 'slept' four hours too, so it would be a good time to catch up on things. Also, Devlar would be asleep, and Zak wouldn't have to listen to the rogue's endless banter. Devlar's zest for life reminded him of himself at a younger age, when he thought he could take on the world. Now that he had the skills to back up that statement, things changed. Taking up his equipment, and retying his headband, he cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair a couple times to get the worst of the tangles out, and, stepping out the door, stumped off down the stairs of the inn he was staying at. Ah! That was right, he had to rob the strongbox with Devlar. That meant the thief probably would be awake and waiting for him. _Bloody Hell._

Tyrahae's awakening nearly resulted in the death of Devlar. The thief had gotten up early, and, stretching and picking grit out of his eyes, came over to Tyrahae, and after a short consideration on the relative merits of letting her sleep and waking her, decided it would be more fun to wake her up. Clearing his throat, the rogue took a feather out of Arakonza's satchel of spare spell components, and scrolls, which he was tasked with keeping track of, and tickled Tyra's ear. She made an unhappy noise and shifted position, but Devlar kept at it, and she started to giggle, a smile creasing her face, where it seemed out of place, but lit up her features all the same, then passed to wide waking, and, jerking her head away from the source of the annoyance, immediately spotted the feather in Devlar's hand.

"Arise, and face the day!" the rogue proclaimed, gesturing grandly at the windows, which showed that it was still mostly dark. Tyrahae's reply was to lunge at the thief with a raised fist, but she was still half-asleep, and he ducked it handily, assuming a comical boxing pose, batting at the air.

"Oho! So it's fistcuffs you're after, eh? All right then, let's see what you've got! Ho! Ha!" He made a few theatric jabs, but now Tyra was fully awake, and she fell into a deep sonorous chant. Devlar stopped his posturing and dived for cover, but there just wasn't enough cover for him to hide behind. Holding her holy symbol of Cyric with one hand, she gestured with the other hand, and a wave of sonic vibrations leapt outward, sending shivers through the floor. The center of the vibrations focused on Devlar, blasting him in the ears with deafening force. He was thrown backwards across the floor, and lay there groaning and holding his hands to his ears. With grim satisfaction, Tyra hefted her dire mace, and casually walked over to where the thief was trying to recover.

"Do that again, and I'll make your brain explode out your ears." she warned him, giving him a none too gentle nudge with her boot. He must have guessed her words, even though his hearing was temporarily gone, and replied,

"I'll have to take that into account, but give me a few minutes to scrape my brains off the floor."

"Your brains are quite intact, little thief, but the rest of you soon won't be." Tyra murmured in sadistic delight, lifting up her foot again.

"Excuse me." Arakanzar smoothly interjected from behind her. The wizard had stepped in from the outside, where he had presumably been out conducting business. The chain shirt slung over his shoulder was proof that he was keeping his promise to replace her protection, if nothing else. Idly, she wondered if he had planned this encounter to reassure her that he was trustworthy.

"As much as I appreciate your plight, Devlar retains some value to me, so please refrain from giving me another thing to charge you for. You already have enough as it is." Lowering the weapon, and settling the shaft into the crook of her arm, Tyra turned around, and, casting a dark glance at the wizard, murmured sulkily,

"I know _that_. Is Crimsonleaf dead yet?"

"Very soon. Would you like to watch?" Arakanzar asked, not sounding at all excited nor sad at killing Zak, which Tyra found a little unusual in a half-drow. But then again, wizards were notorious for being detached from many moral perspectives, having to study at their magic for most of their lives, and not considering much else worth bothering about. Well, obviously he cared about gold more, but still, the principle, despite being what many would call generalization, had worked quite well for her. Devlar staggered up, and shook his head vigorously.

"Ah….Did anybody see where that club-wielding maniac went?" he groaned, sitting down heavily.

"Excellent. You're forming complete sentences. You should be all right in a few minutes." Arakanzar congradulated the rogue.

" Just stay put for now while out guest and I go out and conclude a part of our business agreement."

"No worries…"

Kimdezar Z'tran strode through the streets of the little town like a king. Arakanzar's brother was possessed of a commanding presence, mainly achieved through his mode of dress. The elaborate wizardly robes that shifted and rippled around his slim figure, the iron staff topped with a glowing crystal, and a bandolier of wands displayed very conspicuously all indicated a mage of truly impressive magical might. What was more, he knew it. It had certainly taken him long enough to get the combination right! But all the hours of trial and error were worth it right now, when he would call their errant relation into account. It wasn't that the family really cared about Arakanzar's antics outside of Dambrath, but if they weren't benefiting from them, and indications were that the little exile's profit margin was quite high, then it was an annoyance. It had been about fifteen years since Arakanzar had left Dambrath, so Kimdezar figured that a visit was long overdue.

The only problem was to actually find the object of his search. At first, he had tried asking around town, but either nobody cared, or those who did had been paid off. While in a different situation, Kimdezar might have tried to overrule his brother's bribe with one of his own, he was somewhat in a hurry. Finally, abandoning the effort, he had just divined Arakanzar's location with a spell. He was a little surprised that the other wizard hadn't hidden himself from scrying, but supposed that he didn't think anybody worthwhile would spy on him. The half-drow allowed himself a little smile at that. Receiving many stares and hearing many whispers flitting about around him, Kimdezar came to a halt at Arakanzar's door. Pulling out one of the wands from his bandolier, in this case, the wand of _hold person_, he knocked on the door three times, slowly.

Hearing the knock, Arakanzar frowned. He wasn't expecting anybody at this hour. That didn't bode well at all.

"Devlar, stall him for a minute," he ordered, stepping quickly to the stairs and proceeding up them at a fast pace. The rogue took out one of his daggers from his sleeve, and holding it behind his back, opened the door a crack.

"Who goes there?" he asked in a sharp, challenging tone. Tyra heard a somewhat nasal voice from outside lazily speak a word of arcane power, and Devlar went rigid. As the new arrival pushed the door open, the thief fell to the floor, frozen in place. Tyra gripped the dire mace tighter at the sight of the half-drow, and began to mumble a prayer.

As his brother's lackey toppled over to land facedown on the floor, Kimdezar noted well the dagger he had been concealing. He had expected resistance, and this was proof his expectations had not been inaccurate. The only other opposition was a woman in tattered leather armor who appeared to be muttering to herself. Just in time, Kimdezar realized she was casting a spell, and activated his ring of _spell shielding_. But the spell was not a directly offensive one, so his protection remained intact. Instead, a tan stone wall, matching the hue of the walls of the building, shot up in front of him, forcing him to take a step back, and effectively sealing the way in. Putting the wand of _hold person_ back into his bandolier, he decided to dispel the barrier rather than shatter it, for he was out to do as little damage as possible.

Running through the necessary incantation, he was pleased to see the wall fade into nothingness. The crowd that had gathered was backing away swiftly now, in anticipation of a spell battle, but Kimdezar didn't intend to give them the satisfaction of such a spectacle. The woman that had cast the _wall of stone_ spell was bent over the paralyzed minion, and was reaching into her shirt with one hand while holding the other over the hapless fellow. With a flash of insight, Kimdezar realized she wasn't a wizard or sorcerer, but a priest of sorts. Even better!

"I'm sorry if I seem forward," he called. The cleric didn't reply, but finished her prayer, and the knife-thrower's limbs relaxed, and he got to his feet, a somewhat abashed look on his face. Shrugging, the half-drow continued.

"I'd just like to talk to Arakanzar. I don't want to kill anybody unless I have to." As he expected, the now unparalyzed minion took a step forward, and bowed low. "Our mistake, O mighty wizard. For indeed, your appearance was unlooked for, and my master is a most cautious man. I'm Devlar. This is Tyra." The lady in question was fuming at him, and just gave him a nod. Kimdezar entered the room again, shutting the door behind him. Thumping his staff on the floor, he announced,

"I am Kimdezar Z'tran, of Dambrath. My brother, Arakanzar, is your master, I believe."

"Aye," Devlar replied casually.

"He should be down in a bit. That's his real name? I've heard him use about fifty different names since I started working for him. It might be better for you not to spread the kind of information around."

"I wouldn't think of it." Kimdezar assured him. He had finished thinking about it, and was now thinking about how much to extort out of Arakanzar for his silence on the matter. That, in truth, was what he was here for. The family, while not caring much about the wizard's wanderings, expected to see something out of it for them.

Zak strode down the street with his fast rolling pace moving him along quick enough to reach Arakanzar's place in only a minute or two. He'd have to check in with Brenim before too long, or risk being counted absent. As he neared the place, he noticed an unusually large concentration of people crowding around it, rapidly dispersing. Tapping one of the lot on the shoulder, he asked,

"Did something happen here?" The man shrugged him off, muttering,

"Some kind of drow wizard. I would've put a blade between his ribs if I was a bit braver." Zak's brow wrinkled in confusion. Another wizard of dark-elven blood? Must be some kind of relation to Arakonza.

Arakanzar came halfway back down the stairs, holding a intricately carved staff of ebony wood. Twin brass caps on the ends were also deeply graven with magical glyphs, and the whole item seemed to radiate mystic power. The half-drow's hands were steady as they leveled the staff at his brother.

"Kimdezar," he murmured, loud enough for the room to hear. "If you're here to kill me, you've made a grave mistake," he warned darkly, bringing to mind the command word that would unleash a wave of killing cold from one of the brass caps. Kimdezar bowed deeply.

"As always, brother, you assume too much." Arakanzar remembered the last time he had seen that smug smile, when he was informed he had become a liability to the family. Such thoughts filled him with a desire to snap out the command word anyway, but with an effort, he calmed himself.

"If not to kill me, then what for?" he asked guardedly, coming the rest of the way down the stairs.

"I sincerely doubt that this is a social call." Kimdezar laughed heartily, helping himself to a chair and sitting down, placing his own staff across his knees. Devlar, without being asked, took up his position at the back of the room, while Tyra continued to stand, keeping one hand close to her neck, and the other on her dire mace.

"Arakonza, don't forget about our agreement," she reminded him, her tone one of harsh command. The wizard almost rolled his eyes at that, but replied,

"Of course, Tyrahae. But such business as Kimdezar brings here must take precedence. You understand?" Tyra scowled, and backed into Devlar's corner, moving her hand away from her holy symbol.

"No I don't, but I'll wait for now." Arakanzar took the second chair, and propped his staff up against it. Folding his hands in front of him, he was about to say something when someone sounded the sequence of knocks required to gain entrance from his door. Rising and taking up his staff again, he nodded to Kimdezar.

"Please excuse me for a moment," he apologized.

"I do a great deal of business here." His brother nodded, waving him off, as if giving him permission to go. Another flash of anger swept over him, but this time he retained his composure and clarity of mind, and opened the door a little ways. Zak Crimsonleaf's frowning face stared in at him.

"I've only got a few minutes, so are you ready to leave?" the half-elf demanded. Arakanzar smiled at him indulgently.

"Naturally. But I find that some terribly urgent business has come up, and I'm afraid I'll be a few moments longer than I had planned. Tyra is ready, though. She'll be out shortly." Without waiting for Zak to answer, the wizard attempted to shut the door in his face, only to find that Zak had lodged his foot in the interval between the door and it's frame while Arakanzar wasn't looking. Without showing any discomfort, the mercenary continued, giving him a dark look,

"I'm not especially patient right now. Nor am I in a mood to be as indulgent as you. What I _am_, is extremely pissed off at this whole affair, so if you have a mind for your health, you'll let me in before I relieve your shoulders of your swollen head!" The last few words cracked like a banner in a strong wind, and Zak put his hand on his sword hilt. While Arakanzar was reasonably sure that he could use his staff to stop the half-elf, he wasn't entirely sure, and hedging his bets was how he survived. Besides, if Kimdezar tried anything, Zak would probably help him in exchange for a promise of coin. But outwardly, he sighed, and made a show of reluctance.

"Very well, if you insist, but do take care to comport yourself with some manner of dignity." He opened the door all the way, and Zak stepped in, taking a passing glance at Kimdezar. Arakanzar's brother scrutinized the half-elf for obvious threats, and found plenty. Arakanzar shrugged.

"I must offer my apologies, _dear_ brother, but my client insists that I delay as little as possible in the completion of our bargain. Now, you were saying?" Kimdezar reached into his robes slowly, and took out a small folded sheet of parchment, sealed with the emblem of the family Z'tran, an ornate and gaudy thing which depicted a coiled whip overlaid by a staff-crossed-by-sword, with the whole of the design encircled by the greatly enlarged forelegs of a tiny spider which made up the pinnacle of the mess. Arakanzar had hated it then, and had found no reasons to change his opinion. He idly wondered if the message had been written with explosive runes, or perhaps a deadly poison had been used to soak the paper. But a full battery of detection spells would take too long for comfort…his, Zak's, and Kimdezar's, so he merely broke the seal and unfolded the missive.

"A note for you from our esteemed patriarch. This is at least partially, a social call, as you put it." Kimdezar explained as Arakanzar digested the contents of the message at a rapid rate, his eyes flicking over the paper at great speed. Finishing his reading without bothering to glance at the signature, he re-folded the message, and tucked it away into an inner pocket. Kimdezar shook his head wearily.

"I told them you would never live up to the terms," he said,

"But they insisted, and so here I am." Arakanzar considered his family's proposal. In exchange for limited sponsorship and informal repeal of his exile, they wanted fifty percent of his profits, plus complete details on all his plans, projects, and schemes, which they would take a hand in directing so as to make his operations complement their own. While the prospect was appealing, Arakanzar had always been taught that familial bonds counted for nothing when the potential for gain was involved. Little good it had done him, but the teaching held true.

"Well?" Kimdezar asked.

"Shall I inform them that you refused, and I was forced to disintigrate you?" Arakanzar smiled slowly. Quite coolly, he said,

"That won't be necessary. I agree to your terms with one condition." Kimdezar's voice turned suspicious, for Arakanzar had managed to pull off a few operations in Dambrath before he was caught, and he knew just how well his sibling could twist truth and divert one's attention for just the one critical moment he needed.

"I don't think that they'll be accommodating of any 'condition' that you make, so you'd best make it a small one. What is it?"

"That they also supply me with a complete set of black studded leather armor, and a magical dagger, preferably one that will radiate cold if it can be found. The armor need not be magical. And before you tell me that magical items are out of the question, you can tell them that I will trade them the names and locations of some of my sources of information that I no longer use, which I can promise will be much more profitable then what they are trading. And I'll need an answer within the hour." Tyra looked thoughtful at his mention of possible replacement armor for her that was actually what she preferred, but within a few seconds, she went back to a sneer. Kimdezar's eyes widened. He sat silently for a moment, pursing his lips, but finally, he said,

"I"ll deliver your message, but I don't make any gaurentees. If this is a trick," he promised, "You'll suffer for it." Raising his staff and speaking a word of power, he vanished with a small _pop!_ Zak snorted.

"Trouble in the household, huh? I know the type. And I suppose that I'm obliged to wait for another hour for him to agree or disagree. Well I find that I don't care for that idea too much at all." Tyra seethed silently in the corner, arms folded across her chest. If only the wizard would fulfill his end of the bargain and smite the wretched mercenary down right in front of her! Devlar stowed his crossbow, and clapped his hands once, rising up from his seat with his usual enthusiasm.

"That was some right fine negotiating, boss. You knocked'em dead."

"It wasn't all that difficult." Arakanzar demurred mildly.

"Kimdezar was greatly limited by the scope of his orders, and he knew it. I was never in any danger. As for the actual bargaining, I stand only to gain from it, for if one is skilled enough, it's a small matter to report a bit less income than one actually takes in. They'll get some of my profits, but not quite as much as they may have thought."

"Spare me the details," Zak snorted.

"Just tell me how much I've spent on this gods-cursed situation. And," he added, casually, with a sidelong look at Tyrahae,

"Do please tell me how much the lady offered you for my death, so I can top it." He had guessed that, while on his way here. While he knew that the cleric didn't have any coin, her smoldering hatred of him was so intense that he knew she would get the agreement from Arakanzar any way she could. Tyrahae jumped up, her face turning bright red.

"Kill him now and get it done with!" she demanded, holding her dire mace in a defensive stance. Arakanzar looked to the ceiling.

"I'm sorry, but if he can top your offer…not too hard…then I'm obliged to alter my plans. Don't worry about it too much," he assured the outraged cleric.

"Should he pay something above your price of taking on an additional two jobs for me, which together, might amount to…twenty gold pieces, I'll not kill him, but neither will I kill you. If he wants you dead, he can do it himself, unless he wishes to contract for my _personal_ services as a wizard. _That_, I can reasonably say, is quite above whatever he will wish to extend to me." At hearing how small a value the wizard placed on her service, Tyra reached for her holy symbol again. Devlar cleared his throat conspicuously. Looking over, Tyra saw he held up his trusty crossbow, loaded and aimed. While she might have been willing to take the hit in a different situation, she knew that it could be an great asset to give the appearance of giving in. But she wouldn't be expected to give in easily. By now they probably figured that she was just a hot-tempered cleric who could be easily manipulated. But revenge was all the sweeter when you had to wait for it, as Arakanzar could probably tell her. She smiled inwardly at the thought of goading the half-drow about his family. Bereft of emotion, Zak reached into his bag of holding, and counted out exactly ten gold pieces. Arakanzar frowned, looking confused.

"Why ten?" Zak pushed the pile across the table, the gold winking in the brightening light.

"Because it's worth a half of Tyra's promised servitude. I'll be taking on the other half, namely, I'll work for you _once_, without pay. That's not an offer that Zak Crimsonleaf makes everyday, so either take it, or I might just kill you and take my coin back." An infuriated scream sliced the air as one end of the dire mace crashed down in the middle of the table, scattering the pieces and coins across the floor. Zak threw himself backwards, unlimbering his crossbow, as the other end came around in his direction. He glanced over at Devlar, but the rogue continued to hold his fire. Holding his weapon steady, Zak inquired,

"You would prefer that things went otherwise?"

"Why won't you just die!" spat Tyra, trembling in impotent fury.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" Zak met her glare with one of his own.

"Because maybe, just maybe, I'd like to continue living, not to mention find out what it is that you were sent to find out, and how much you did find out," he bit out.

"And…" he began, but paused a moment, and instead of saying what he had originally planned, _And maybe I just happen to understand your perspective_, with,

"And maybe I think I can help. Do you think the fact that you worship some dark god matters? Hell no! Since I worship Tymora, you probably think that I'm not allowed to associate with you. Tymora will just have to get over it. Ask me if I care! Zak Crimsonleaf does what he wants." Finishing his little rant, Zak fell silent, and lowered his crossbow. Slowly, the red drained out of Tyra's complexion. Slowly, Arakanzar let the spell component he had been holding slip back into an inner pouch. Devlar gave a low whistle, looking at the crossbow he held in his own hand as if he didn't know quite how it had got there.

"Sorry about the table," Tyra said to the wizard, though there wasn't even a trace of guilt in her voice. Arakanzar looked a little impressed as he answered,

"Don't worry about it. We'll be leaving now. Here, I've purchased a chain shirt that should fit you." He motioned to Devlar, who dug out the armor in question from Arakanzar's satchel, where it had been stored and tossed it over to Tyra, who looked at it with something approaching distaste. After all, that kind of armor wasn't very comfortable in the heat, and it would show off more of her figure then the studded leather had. But she threw it over her shoulder and headed for the upstairs.

"I'll be needing another ten gold pieces to pay the combined cost of the armor and getting all three of us onto the caravan."

"That's all it cost?" Zak asked, raising an eyebrow. He was suspicious of a catch.

"Nine for the armor, one to the caravan master. I might have paid more for the latter charge, save that your superior was disinclined to say 'no' to me."

"Did you harm him?" Zak demanded. Arakanzar sniffed as if offended. _Patrician,_ Zak thought, irritated beyond reason. _You can just smell the aristocratic stench._

"Most certainly not. He's perfectly fine. Go and see for yourself. I'll come with you as soon as Tyrahae comes back down."

"What about when your brother comes back?" Zak asked wryly. Arakanzar held up his hands in helplessness.

"He'll won't find me for some time once I've left. Did you really believe I was serious?"

"For a bit."

"Good! Then he'll have too. Of course, Kimdezar believes that my magic is weaker than his, so that he'll be able to track me down again with some divinations. And he's probably right."

"I'm sensing a _but_ coming here," Zak muttered. Ignoring him, Arakanzar continued,

"But fortunately, I happen to have three skilled people in my employ. All of you," he waved his hand to encompass the room.

"Are now responsible for protecting me from Kimdezar for as long as it takes me to reach another city and settle down. Let's make it two tendays."

"Fine. The sooner I can discharge this debt that isn't mine, the better." Zak grumbled, and turned towards the door.

"This means our deal is off, Arakonza. This job is the only one I have to take on." Tyrahae declared sullenly as she came back down the stairs. She had probably been listening in on the conversation. The chainmail's dull silver was hidden beneath her traveling cloak, but looking closely, Zak could see that she had kept the bottom half of the studded leather, which was damaged less then the top half had been. The overall effect was decidedly disreputable. Zak liked it. One corner of his mouth curved upwards in a lopsided half-smile that went thoroughly ignored by Tyra. Arakanzar's eyes gleamed in the growing light. His tone was final.

"So be it. But should you wish to renew our deal, you may buy it back at any time. However, should Crimsonleaf do the same, before I can kill him, you won't get a second chance. There's a limit to the number of times that I'll backstab somebody and leave them alive. Do you understand?" Tyra nodded once in acknowledgement.

"So be it, wizard. And as for you," Her gaze flicked over to Zak's murky brown eyes.

"This isn't over."

"No." Zak agreed,

"But soon enough, it will be." For a moment, the two of them stood silently, then Tyra looked away. The foursome stepped out of the door, leaving the house deathly still. Only a minute after the dust from their footsteps drifted back to the floor, the first rays of the sun spilled over the top of the windowsill, casting long shadows from the bits of the broken table, and bearing silent witness to Kimdezar's sudden return.

"Arakanzar…" he began, but upon seeing nobody there, he angrily kicked at a chair.

"Loviatar's lash, but he did it again!" he shouted.

"He did it again!" His eyes narrowed, and he squinted at the sunrise, the light making him very uncomfortable.

"Pah! I bet he thinks that I"ll deal with him personally for his insolence. I'll show him just how little the family thinks of him. Armand's very close by. I'll send _him_ in to do it instead." He spoke the same command word that he had a few minutes ago, and again, the room was occupied only by the dawn.


	5. Ashes to Ashes

"By all that is unholy, Kimdezar, this had better be good." Armand Lennox watched the half-drow's image waver in the scrying bowl, over steepled, gloved, fingers. He spoke quite calmly, and perhaps that calm was what so unnerved the wizard, who fidgeted a bit, but regained his confidence quickly. A dark half-smile flitted across Armand's craggy countenance. _He hides his fear well._ _But to feel fear at all means that I already have the advantage._

'"I have a job I need…I would _like_ done." Kimdezar said, remembering a bit late about how Armand had admonished him the last time about acting as if he was the dark knight's master. "You know my brother, Arakanzar?" the wizard asked. Armand shook his head slightly.

"No sir, I do not," he admitted without embarrassment. "Do you wish something done to him of a murderous nature?" Kimdezar gritted his teeth.

"_Very_ murderous. He's close to you, on a caravan traveling north into Memnon. How soon can you-" Armand held up his hand, and the half-drow stopped talking instantly. The blackguard stood up to his full height, looking quite imposing in the ebon-colored full plate armor that bulked out his frame. He had gone quite bald at the top of his head, but elsewhere, slowly graying black hair was in thorough evidence. Only the sword that hung at his side seemed out of place. The weapon's silvery hilt and deep green pommel stone had not been made for someone of Armand's attitude.

"What method do you prefer that I use, sir?" he inquired politely, as though talking about the weather. "Are there to be any special conditions for this man's death, or should I merely lure him into a dark alley and…" He let the sentence trail off into an awful silence that would've cast a pall over the room if it hadn't already been extremely unsettling to Kimdezar in the first place. The wizard thought about it a minute, and shook his head.

"Nothing special. I don't need him to die feeling flattered that he rates something special." Armand bowed deeply, his thick black cloak flowing about him.

"As you command, sir. How am I to know this Arakanzar when I see him?"

"How many half-drow staff-wielding wizards do you see in Calimsham or Amn?" Kimdezar asked, striding the line between mockery and admonishment. Another half-smile from the blackguard made him regret it instantly.

"So far, I have seen you many times. But no others. You will receive his staff when he is dead, as a token. All other magical items will be your tribute to the cause for this mission. Does that meet with your requirements, sir?" Armand asked, always polite, maddeningly polite for somebody whose very soul had been corrupted by the dark powers. One of Kimdezar's fantasies involved the damnable man losing his little attitude and just dealing with him like a normal paranoid person who killed people for a living.

"Yes, that's fine. But this should be considered something urgent, so please try not to take too long," he agreed. Armand offered a brief nod, and Kimdezar's image faded away. Looking up from the bowl, Armand strode out of the chamber at an unhurried pace. His armor, unlike most heavy armors, was utterly silent instead of clanking with every step. It was one of many gifts from his masters, one of the most useful ones. The house he was living in was currently a base of operations for the Knights of the Shield, whom he had a good relationship with. He provided them with his formidable array of talents, and in return, they provided a steady stream of tribute to his private funds, and to the coffers of the Shadow Thieves, who were his real employers, having charged him with the task of spying on the Knights. His methods were simple and methodical.

Armand had worked for the Knights once before, when he was spying for the Moonstars, of all things. After he survived the assassination attempt by the Knights when they learned he was carrying the names of a few high-ranking Knights, they tried to buy him away. He willingly came over to their side, but only after he had completed his contract. They were furious, but Armand convinced them that they didn't want him as an enemy. Naturally, as soon as he joined them again, he freely admitted that he was under contract to the Shadow Thieves, and so he found himself on all manner of missions against that little band. In return, they received false, useless, or out of date information, and they paid him for the privilege. He chuckled under his breath. _Once they finally figure out that I've been cheating them, I'd best placate them with all the real information I've gathered on the Knights. Neither of my employers are very intelligent in these matters, it seems._

Stepping out into the street, he nodded to the guard standing at the door, and leaned in to murmur,

"I've just taken on a private job. Inform your masters that I am to be considered unreachable for fifteen days. I may return sooner."

"Right. Safe journey."

"My thanks." He continued on with the ease of a predator who had scented his prey close by. The name of the quarry was Arakanzar Z'tran.

The caravan marched on under the cloudless sky. Zak walked in silence. Anbory had tried to start a conversation, but, finding himself answered in monosyllables, gave it up in favor of finding somebody else to talk to. Knowing the Tethyrian's mouth, the word had probably spread all along the caravan now.

Zak Crimsonleaf was in a bad mood. Tyrahae was as far from him as she could possibly get. He was close to the front of the line, and if he squinted, he could make out a dire mace-carrying figure trudging along at the back. He hadn't the faintest idea wherever Arakanzar and Devlar were, and he didn't care to know. When he'd spoken to Brenim before they set out, it rapidly became obvious that Arakanzar had charmed him with a spell, and it hadn't worn off yet. Naturally, by the time it did, Zak knew that the wizard wouldn't be found. Anbory came up alongside him again.

"You're sure you don't want to talk about it?" the guard asked. Zak gritted his teeth. This was the third time, and if he hadn't traveled for so far with that chatterbox at his back, he'd be whipping out his blade and shortening a few of the man's limbs.

"Quite sure," he replied, struggling to control the urge to lash out at something. If only Devlar were nearby. Anbory sighed.

"I don't get what's gotten into you, Zak. You were well enough on the trip north from Calimport. What spoiled it?"

One more time, Zak promised silently, one more time, and he'd be getting the flat of Zak's blade in his mouth. But he answered,

"People who talked too much," and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"Go and talk to the lady with the dire mace about it," he invited Anbory. "She'll be happy to tell you everything you want to know." The guard glanced back, and shook his head.

"I've tried. She's even worse then you are." Zak smiled grimly.

"I expected as much. Try locating a half-drow wizard then. If you can find him, I'm sure he'll enlighten you for a small fee." Anbory sighed mightily.

"Zak one of these days, you've got to exercise a little self-control. I mean, just a little bit…" He trailed off under one of the mercenary's withering glares. Shrugging, he forged on ahead, leaving the half-elf behind. On impulse, Zak decided to go and talk with Tyra. He was getting impatient, and if he couldn't pry her story out of her by threats or conversation, force was always a fine alternative. Normally the trick was to get somebody to pick a fight, but with the cleric, it was just too easy. Perhaps that had been the best thing to do all along.

Sitting on top of the lead wagon, with a spell disguising him as an over-the-hill guardsman cradling a shortbow in the crook of his arm. A curved Calimshite scimitar leaned against the wood beside him. The sword and bow were actually real. He had long ago discovered that a half-lie or half-truth, whichever way you looked at it, mixed with the whole truth was more effective than if you told a simple lie. After all, there were spells to detect such things. But lying by omission, lying by splitting hairs, that was the essence of true cunning. That was how things were done in the city of T'lindhet. Thought quite honestly, he could do without reminders of his one humiliating visit to the drow city.

The charmed caravan master, Brenim, sat beside him, the halfling's legs dangling over the edge of the bench, but he held the reins with a seasoned hand, and word of any disturbance in the caravan was brought to him at once by a few of the guards who were on his personal payroll. That charm spell wouldn't last too much longer, but Arakanzar could cast that spell twice more that day, and wasn't worried about losing his place in the caravan. He was pondering the state of affairs between his two newest conscripts.

"Brenim, I'm wondering what I might do about a problem I have," he mused. The man made a wonderful sounding board, as he was very receptive to all of Arakanzar's problems, and still possessed enough of his intellect to offer semi-helpful solutions.

"What kind of problem?" the halfling inquired placidly, keeping his gaze on the horizon.

"I have two new hirelings that want to kill each other," the half-drow answered, darting a glance over his shoulder and behind the wagon to see if Zak was still visible. Devlar was keeping an eye on both him and Tyra as best he could, and had orders to alert him if the two seemed to be bound for violence. The mercenary was stumping back towards the rear of the caravan. That didn't bode well for Arakanzar's investment. Devlar came up alongside a few second later, a bit out of breath from his little dash. Before Brenim could reply to Arakanzar's predicament, the thief reported,

"He's gone after her, boss. Ye want me to try and talk to'im?" The wizard shook his head.

"It's best to let one of'em win." Brenim put in. "It might mean the loss of some labor, but you can always go through the loser's pockets to make up the difference." Arakanzar mulled over the suggestion, and waved his hand.

"As my friend says, Devlar, let them handle it. But when Tyra loses, step in and…recoup my investment, as it were." The thief chuckled.

"You don't think it's much of a contest, boss?" The wizard shook his head slowly.

"No, Devlar, I don't. Tyra is powerful, but I've spent some of yesterday looking up on Zak Crimsonleaf. He'll win. She'll provide a good fight, but the mercenary's skill in one-on-one combat is unmatched, according to my sources. Naturally, it _is_ only rumor, so this will be a good chance to see for ourselves just how good he is." Arakanzar made a shooing motion to Devlar.

"Go off, Dev, and tell me what happens."

"What, you aren't gonna come back and watch?"

"I foresee a swift and painful end if Zak catches me watching him at this point. His end. I'd rather not lose both of them just yet."

Zak's fingers caressed the hilt of his sword as he strode towards Tyra. He'd been holding back for too long. _Now it's time to unleash some righteous fury!_ This was the best part of his occupation. Kicking other people's butts while looking exceptionally rakish. Tyra spotted him and shifted her grip on the dire mace so that it could easily be swung off her shoulder into a stunning attack. A slow grin began to spread across Zak's face, growing wider and wider as he came closer. His shield was already on his arm, and he was facing into the sun. A swift plan of attack began taking shape.

_First, reflect the sun with my shield into her eyes. That buys me a few seconds. Second, ignite my sword and come in swinging. Third, kick sand into her eyes to blind her again. If it works, I win, if it doesn't, I still get a distraction. From there, I'll make things up._ He was almost close enough for the first part to work. _A few more steps…_ As he was just shifting his shield to catch the sunlight, a fiery explosion burst across the caravan line just ahead, and a wave of scorching heat washed over him. The shock of the blast nearly knocked him off his feet, and he shook his head to clear it of the afterimage. Looking wildly about for what had stopped his preemptive strike on Tyra, he saw a line of figures on a nearby dune scrabbling down the sand. Battle cries ripped forth from a score of throats. The caravan guards sprinted to the arms wagon to obtain bows. The wagon wheels were wedged in place to stop the camels from making off with the cargo.

Glancing towards Tyra, Zak caught her eye for a brief instant. A look of intense hatred rivaled the searing heat of the fireball. But in the next instant, she composed herself, and began a rapid prayer to whatever dark god she served. Zak's fingers closed around his sword hilt, and _Echoing Courage_ rang as it was drawn. Holding the shining weapon high, Zak brought it down at the same time he roared the command words that activated its ability.

"_Flaming Death!_" Bright, hungry red-orange flames reached into the air from the blade, crackling and snapping in their energy. Some of the guards had bows strung and were loosing sporadic shots at the enemy. Zak was looking for the wizard who had thrown the fireball, and found him still standing on the dune ridge. He couldn't recognize the features, due to the sun's position, but he could make a good guess as to who it was. He charged, kicking up dust from the soles of his boots as he pushed himself to the fastest speed he could manage on the shifting terrain. His own battle cry split the air.

"_Tell Kelemvor that Zak Crimsonleaf sent you!_" he cried as he picked out his first victim in the enemy vanguard.

As soon as the fireball was thrown, Arakanzar released the charm spell on Brenim. The halfling had to be able to coordinate his men effectively if they were to survive. He realized precisely what was going on. Kimdezar was having a bit of fun, toying with his intended prey. Snatching up his staff, he hopped off the seat with a spryness that seemed out of place for a wizard, and he snapped off a command word. A red-yellow ball grew into being at the end of the staff, and as soon as it was formed, sped off across the sand as if it had been launched from a crossbow. A second fireball blossomed into the air, this time among their attackers. But as the smoke lifted, Arakanzar saw that, to his dismay, not one of the bandits had even been singed. Kimdezar must have used one of his numerous magical items to cast the spell_ protection from fire_ many times. He saw Zak charging out into battle, his sword streaming flames, and shook his head.

"Fall back to the wagons! Fall back!" Brenim raged at the guards, loading his sling and gesticulating madly.

"You remember the drill!" A second voice shouted, this one much deeper. "Swordsmen form a square, archers behind, and Tammir to the back." Tammir was the resident mage on the caravan master's payroll, and Arakanzar had spoken with him, posing as an aspiring wizard. He couldn't possibly stand up to anything that Kimdezar unleashed. He began another spell, plucking up his determination. Zak was still rushing out into the middle of the enemy, oblivious to the fact that the rest of the guards were obeying orders and forming up into a defensive stance. With the protective spells, his sword would be useless. Perhaps a well-targeted _dispel magic_ would even the odds. Carefully timing the spell to go off at almost the exact moment Zak crossed swords, Arakanzar watched with interest.

Tyra rose up from her kneeling stance, having completed her prayer, which increased her strength twofold, putting even more power behind the swing of her dire mace. She saw Zak in his headlong rush, and laughed scornfully. Where did he think he was going? Without any concern for the mercenary's well-being, she invoked one of the most powerful spells that Cyric had granted her, and on the last syllable, a column of black-orange fire reached down from the cloudless sky. Arakanzar's _dispel_ _magic_ spell went off an instant after Tyrahae's flame strike, and the bandits on the distant edges of the attacking formation screamed in agony as the unholy fire washed over them in a killing wave. Zak was swallowed by the blast as well, and Tyra nodded in satisfaction. _That's one problem taken care of_. As the dust cleared, it revealed that half the attackers were alive and still advancing. Or rather, they were trying to advance, but were largely being held at bay by a single figure who, upon closer examination, was Zak, a bit singed, but no worse for the wear otherwise. Tyra cursed bitterly, leaning back against one of the wagons. It just figured. She determined to sit out the rest of the battle and let everybody else exhaust themselves.

Kimdezar was disturbed. He had counted on magical opposition from his brother, but he had not known that the dark-haired woman was powerful enough to cast a flame strike. She would bear watching in the future. For now, he would respond in kind, with one of his best spells. Taking out the necessary components, he hastily muttered out the arcane syllables as rapidly as could be done. At the conclusion, a thick red fog sifted out of the air above the knot of caravan guards, and enveloped them in a killing mist. The coughing and screams were audible from his position on the ridge.

Tammir had been lucky enough to escape the _cloudkill_ spell, having scrambled over the wagon and hidden on the other side as soon as he saw it go off. Now he sweated and shook, pushed nearly to the breaking point. He heard his comrades dying horribly on the other side of the wagon, and yet he could not force his limbs to move. Instead he crouched down lower, and whimpered pitifully. For a moment, he closed his eyes and wished it would all go away. Then, in the deep recesses of his mind, his old master's voice sounded, like the warm desert breeze on his face.

"_Let the Art paint itself, young apprentice, and endeavor to be the brush."_ Jocan had been fond of comparing the wizardly art to normal paint and charcoal, and never missed an opportunity to work it in somewhere. Tammir's mind cleared, and a new grimness took hold about him as he reached within his robe for his most guarded arcane treasure, a weathered and worn scroll.

"_Always remember where you put which scrolls, or your desire and your action will be sundered." _ Smoothing it out as best he could, he nodded as he confirmed that it would do what it was meant to do. Heaving himself up onto the wagon, _why hadn't he done more walking about in his travels instead of riding?_, he took a deep breath and, in a steady voice, began to cast what would probably be his last spell. A few words from the end, as he felt the Weave responding to his call, a greenish projectile hit him in the stomach, and he doubled over in agony. He nearly fumbled the crowning phrase, but somehow managed to recite the last few words, while watching the dripping hole in his midsection grow larger.

"_..jacta…shavannnik……_" He toppled backwards onto the wagon, still clutching the scroll. The words swam off the page and his vision began to darken.

"_Whatever your thoughts, trust in the Weave and in yourself."_ Taking a last, trembling breath, as he surrendered to the darkness, the final word fled his lips.

"…_maedim!_"

As he watched his _acid arrow _spell speed off, completely satisfied that the ambitious little mage would be no more of a threat, Kimdezar turned his attention back to the remnants of the caravan guards. The merchants and other noncombatants were struggling to arm themselves, but they had clearly never used arms before, and would easily be overcome. Perhaps he had been a bit premature in hiring Armand, if this was the best his brother could do. Really, Arakanzar hadn't even put in an appearance yet. A humorless smile flickered across the wizard's elegant features. He began to descend down the ridge towards the skirmish that was still raging about Zak.

The mercenary had shattered the weapons of several bandits, dealt with their owners in similar fashion, even to the point of slicing one in half at the waist. The sands were wet with blood about his feet, and even as Kimdezar watched, he disarmed another man with a savage twist of his shield, then swung his sword around and brutally disemboweled the man. He looked to be enjoying the fight with something akin to the berserker rages Kimdezar had heard of among the barbarian tribes of the North. Only his brilliant swordplay did not lend itself to such fits. Indeed, he was constantly shouting threats at his attackers, taunting them with boasts of his skill.

Kimdezar considered which spell to use against him, but was distracted by a thunderous electrical discharge from where he had last seen the caravan's mage. As he watched, a blue-white bolt blasted outwards from the spot, spitting one of the bandits upon its end. It did not stop, but continued onward, richocheing between fully twelve of the bandits before dissipating into the air. Only seven of the attackers were still standing, but only three guards, not counting Crimsonleaf. The cleric, like the mercenary, also seemed to be enjoying the clash, but was doing little to interfere. Kimdezar hadn't the faintest idea why she had elected to stay out of the fight, but he didn't truly care when or if she changed her mind. Perhaps she could be moved to work for him for a time, presuming she let him slaughter everybody else. Now, where was Arakanzar?

Arakanzar knew that he couldn't stop Kimdezar from killing the guards from the first spell cast. That was a given. Therefore, he began casting spell after spell that would protect him from various kinds of harm. If he was going to take on his brother in a wizard's duel, he wanted to be prepared as possible, and Kimdezar had undoubtedly cast those same enchantments on himself before the battle even began. After he saw Tammir's _chain lightning_ strike the bandits, who looked to be experiencing a serious loss of morale, he decided he had waited long enough, and stepped out, bristling with layers of protection, and holding his staff in both hands. He spat another command word, and the sand underneath Kimdezar grew sticky white tendrils that twined about his brother's legs. Kimdezar stumbled, falling flat on his face in the _web_ spell. But he shook it off and planted one foot firmly under him, not looking quite as awe-inspiring with strands of silk and sand plastered on the front of his robe. Arakanzar knew the spell wouldn't be very effective on the sands. It was only intended as a distraction, an opening gambit. Infuriating an opponent who was quite capable of turning him to dust was perhaps a bit unwise, but in this case, Arakanzar thought it well worth it as he smiled merrily at the look on the other's face.

Zak was running out of opponents, and for some reason, this annoyed him. Drenched in sweat and enraged beyond reason, he saw Arakanzar's first spell, and Kimdezar trip and fall. He dismissed the two spellcasters as unimportant. What mattered now was that he was doing what he did best. The seven bandits who were still standing had formed a circle around him, trying to outflank him and bring him down by dint of numbers. So far, none of them had had the courage to charge forward. And now they would never get the chance. "_Dragon's Fury!_" he howled into the faces of the two opponents to his immediate front, and stabbed his sword point out. The fires that wreathed the weapon exploded outward in a rough imitation of a red dragon's breath weapon, spreading outwards in a cone. The two unfortunate souls vanished into the wall of flame. All that Zak saw was two shadows that wavered and vanished under the salvo. As the effects died down, nothing could be seen of its victims save for two small piles of ash. The last of the would-be attackers broke and ran, plumes of dust spurting from their heels as they sprinted for relative safety over the ridge. Zak didn't blame them. He turned back to the lone spellcaster just in time to see another fireball engulf the remnants of the caravan guards. He heard Anbory's death scream. He angrily looked to Arakanzar, but the wizard was occupied with one of his spells, completely ignoring the few merchants who were alive and cowering behind the wagons. The camels were panicked, but unable to snap their binds and run. As it was, with the wheels wedged in place, as they had been at the beginning of the attack, they were helpless against anything.

Tyrahae started forward finally, annoyed that she had to take a hand in dispatching Kimdezar. If Arakanzar couldn't handle him, maybe he wasn't as powerful as all that. "_Ebony Dawn_," she hissed quietly, and the ends of her dire mace began to radiate a cold reddish light. She strode onward, unworried about any spell Kimdezar might choose to hurl in her direction. He would have all his attention focused on Zak and Arakanzar. Oh, he had most certainly noticed her little _flame strike_, but as long as she refrained from further such displays, things should go well.

Arakanzar gritted his teeth under the withering barrage of a _scorching ray_ from Kimdezar. More layers of his protection peeled off like a snakeskin. He replied with something he thought might confuse his brother a bit longer, a _grease _spell that again sent his opponent's feet flying into the air. He shook his head, not at all pleased that such spells were ineffective in the desert. Perhaps it had been time to move on after all. Devlar was hiding behind him, based on his assurance that the only safe place in a wizard's duel is out of sight. He flung a quick _dispel magic_ at Kimdezar, and began to move out, stepping carefully over the bodies of both the caravan guards and bandits alike. They held no use for him either way. The acrid stench curling up along with the smoke wrinkled his nose and turned his stomach, but he managed to retain his breakfast.

"Loviatar's Bloody Lash!" cursed Kimdezar. "This is not going well." He had lost all of his bandit allies, and was quite possibly on the verge of losing his own life as well, with all three of the most powerful people in the caravan either stepping, edging, or full-out running, in Zak's case, towards his position. Making a snap decision, he decided to get out and come back later. _Armand is on the trail, and I can always watch him do his work, _he reminded himself. But something still rankled him about being forced to withdraw. He snarled out the words of his last teleport spell for the day, and vanished from the scene. He reappeared in an elegantly appointed chamber of his own home in Dambrath. The sudden transition from heat to coolness was a welcome relief, and, taking out a handkerchief, he began mopping off the sweat that had started to get in the way of his spellcasting.

As had been agreed, his uncle, the brother of the Z'tran family's current patriarch, was waiting, and upon seeing Kimdezar's state of disarray, didn't bother to restrain a smirk.

"So, I suppose things didn't go _exactly_ as planned?" he inquired smoothly, secure in his unassailable status of a cleric of Loviatar. While most of Kimdezar's relatives would have _liked_ to find the older half-drow dead, as long as he remained in the favor of his god, he was simply too useful to ignore. As if to pointedly remind everybody of the fact, he displayed his holy symbol very prominently, with an outer robe of deep ruby that hung open all the time. Kimdezar was in no mood to humor the man.

"Perhaps," he suggested with a poisonous sweetness, "If you had been there to aid me, they might have worked a little better." Unfortunately, Jaemorl remained unintimidated, and merely made his hands disappear inside his sleeves. His tone did cool a little, but he turned away and began to pace about the room.

"You're sure that Arakanzar got the impression that only you were involved in this deal, that none of us knew about it?" the cleric demanded. Nothing in the way he said it betrayed the anxiety he must be feeling. Kimdezar knew, he just _knew_ that the family was put at a unique disadvantage in trying to rein in Arakanzar. They might've chosen somebody else, somebody they could blackmail or spy on to do the negotiations with his little brother, but they would have to have someone who could teleport at will, and none of the house wizards were as powerful as Kimdezar. So, his own plans for the eventual use of his brother's own arcane skills against the family elders were quietly laid out, and now, put into action.

"Oh, I'm rather sure that he doesn't suspect anything," he waved off the question, choosing his words with care.

"Yes or no?" Jaemorl asked, still not giving anything away. Kimdezar, annoyed beyond measure, idly wished that he could put a _crushing despair_ spell on the man sometime. He let his simulated good cheer drain away, and answered sullenly,

"No."

"Good. And how badly was the caravan hurt?"

"Oh, only about a half dozen people left alive, and they'll be hard pressed to make it to the next town without falling prey to whatever gangs will close in on the abandoned wagons."

His interrogation complete, Jaemorl bowed slightly, and left without a word. Kimdezar shook his head, as he began to look through his closet for a robe that was at least reasonably flashy and not covered with sand and spiderwebs. _It isn't the blade you don't see that gets you, but the blade in plain view in front that you didn't notice, because you were looking for all the hidden ones._


	6. Happy Trails

_Note from the Author: Due to my desire to see whatever readers I have get more frequent updates, I've scaled back the length of my chapters. If any of you actually preferred the longer ones, let me know, otherwise, I'll keep on doing it this way. Blunt the Edge!_

As Kimdezar's form blurred and vanished, Zak, his chest working like a bellows, halted his headlong charge, and turned around to face Arakanzar, Tyra, Devlar, and a single surviving man who had been laid out by the red cloud Arakonza's brother had conjured up, and was coughing up a steady stream of blood. That unfortunate soul expired just as Zak turned to face him, slumping face-first into the sand. He supposed those fat cowards of merchants he'd seen dive behind the wagons might still be alive, but he wasn't going to worry about it.

"_Dying Embers_," he commanded, and his flaming sword let the fires die away. Stowing it in the sheath again, he strode down the dune to meet Arakanzar and Devlar halfway. The half-drow looked a little regretful at all the bodies strewn across the desert, and Devlar was trying to hide behind him.

"Having fun, Zak?" Arakanzar asked with a touch of black humor. "I imagine that if you still had a caravan boss to pay you, you'd get a good bit extra for that little stunt." Zak smiled dangerously.

"I'm not in the mood, Arakonza. Try that again, and you'll suffer." Before the wizard could reply, he pushed past him and Devlar and, pulling his crossbow from it's holster, headed in Tyra's direction. The cleric, who hadn't spent a minute in battle, wasn't even perspiring all that much. She greeted Zak with a sarcastic,

"We appear to have more in common than you think, if that's the way you operate." She gestured to the battlefield, and laughed loudly.

"_That_ was a fine bit of work, from somebody who manages to make an enemy every five minutes. I begin to see why none of them have yet come after you." She cocked an eyebrow, and waited for him to reply. Zak took off his headband and ran a hand through his hair, aiming the crossbow at her head. Looking over at Anbory's charred and blackened body, which he recognized by the brass ring on the left hand, a building rage coursed through him, but he didn't pull the trigger. His voice was flat and calm.

"You didn't help."

"Should I have?" she snorted disdainfully. "I don't know hardly any of them, and besides, they all hated me. Why should I care?"

"Then you wouldn't mind if I killed you now?" Zak asked quietly, almost a whisper. Tyra considered, then grinned as she leaned forward, met the blazing fury in Zak's eyes without a reaction and stated, clearly,

"You could try." The _crack!_ of the crossbow didn't go far in the dunes.

Arakanzar pursed his dry lips, and mused over this most recent development as Zak pushed past him.

"Devlar," he murmured, "I think that we may have a problem." The thief looked more than a little apprehensive, and complained,

"Why do we have to associate with people who would kill us if they could all the time? I mean, Nine Hells, look at the _corpses_, boss!" He took out his rapier regarded it with an expression of barely controlled panic.

"I just don't think I could stand up to either of'em, let alone _both_ with a this thing!" Arakanzar held up a hand to forestall any further comments.

"Patience, Dev. I have no intention of forcing you to stand up to anybody just yet. What we do now is-" _Crack!_ The pair immediately wheeled about, looking for the source of the shot to find Zak shouting at Tyra and drawing his sword. A crossbow bolt lay in the sand at her feet, and an invisible shield about her was still shimmering with the residual impact. She didn't look especially concerned, but just now, Arakanzar needed every underling he could get.

"Crimsonleaf!" he raised his voice, hastily making his way down the dune with Devlar following. He had just about had enough of the man's little fits, and let his irritation bleed into his voice.

"That is enough! You are going to wait and listen to me, and you are going to do it now!" But Zak looked back, and gave the two an obscene gesture, then turned about and promised,

"You'll burn one day, and I'll laugh at every scream." Tyra spit at his feet.

"Why don't you shove that flaming sword up your ass, how about? I'd bet no one has stood up to you for a while. Its high time you were taught your place, weakling!" Zak's face went the color of his headband, and he reached for his sword again. Tyra brought the dire mace into position for a sidelong swing. Just then, Arakanzar came up, and interceded, firmly planting his feet between the pair.

"Now hear this!" he bellowed. "You're bloody well going to rein in the bloodlust until we are safely away, and if you continue, I'll have no qualms about slaying you both, and selling off both your possessions in the next town. And I'm _very_ annoyed just now, and I don't much care for it, so watch what you say next." Zak seemed to deflate, stowing his sword again and turning about. The red receded from his face, and he remarked to Tyra offhandedly,

"Well, just don't be touching any of the bodies. I've still gotta collect my pay, and I'm not exactly caring 'bout where I get it from at this point."

"Oh! But wouldn't that run counterpoint to all your sellsword morals, even outmoded as they are?" Tyra asked, propping the dire mace against a wagon and climbing in to look over the cargo. Zak began to search the bodies and dump whatever valuables were salvageable into his bag of holding.

"What do you care if it does or doesn't?" he retorted. "People have no use for gold once they're dead. They certainly won't care, so I don't see why any of us should."

"The realm of the dead is a highly fascinating topic, Zak, but one that I would immensely prefer to discuss in another location." Arakanzar remarked, standing aside and motioning to Devlar to start looting the dead as well. The rogue took out a clothespin, stuck it on his nose, and began to scrounge about the remains of the guards.

"Just now, we should probably be moving on," he added, eyeing the horizon. "The gangs will have seen the smoke, and will quickly realize there's too much of it to come from a campfire, even laying aside the fact that it's the day. I estimate we've a few hours to be far on our way."

"_My_ way, Arakonza, is taking me far away from all of _you_." Zak replied hotly. "And don't start your line about a contract and mercenary's honor. Like most jobs, it depends on the employer, and I highly doubt that you'd remember the thing for long if it didn't suit your purposes to have me under hire to you."

The half-drow shrugged, meandering along the length of the caravan, poking at some of the more or less intact bodies to make sure they were dead.

"Well, you can't blame me for trying, can you?"

Zak rolled his eyes, as he carefully pried lose Anbory's ring, and tucked it away in an inner pocket.

"I probably could, but never mind _that_. Just now, I'll settle for a long layover in the next city and a peaceful parting of the ways." Arakanzar shook his head.

"You continue to confuse me, Crimsonleaf. Was there anything in particular that led you to become the overbearing, egotistical sellsword you are today?"

"Well, _obviously_ there is, but I'm not gonna be talking 'bout it to you." Zak refused, hopping up to the nearest wagon, and pocketing what looked to be a potion of some kind.

"How much would it cost me for it?" Arakanzar tried again, starting to unfasten one of the camels from its harness. He quickly tangled the lines, having no experience in the area, and gave up on it. Zak considered. The wizard might pay a healthy sum, and the half-elf didn't much care who knew about his past. It wasn't all that traumatic or exciting anyway.

"Let's say you release me an' Tyra from your service, and you pay back the coins you got out of me, and we'll call it even." Arakanzar frowned, and, putting down his hood, began to attempt to fix his hair. As he worked, he turned over the proposal in his mind. He didn't much care for the idea of losing whatever hold he might still have over Zak and Tyra, but then again, it didn't count for a lot with people such as them. The gold was also rather insignificant. Besides, he always appreciated a well-told story, and blackmail was an art he excelled at.

"Very well then, but wait until we're a bit further along, if you would," he acquiesced, glancing about at the horizon. Trying to untangle the harness he had been working, he again failed miserably, and, frustrated, yelled for Devlar. The thief came running up, putting away the clothespin and massaging his nose where it had been pinching.

"Aye, boss?"

"Get this damn animal unattached, and I mean yesterday."

"Hey!" a weak voice called. "What about my goods?"

"Yeah," a second replied. Three battered merchants peered out from behind one of the nearer wagons. Arakanzar swept a low bow.

"Good sirs, you may consider what we take payment for your safe passage to the next town. What you can't carry, I am certain the loss will not cripple you. No wise man risks all his livelihood on such a venture as this." The man who had first spoken proved more stubborn then the other two, for while they nodded numbly, and began going about the business of getting a few camels unfastened, he stood stoutly, and, arms folded over his pronounced belly, proclaimed,

"If you'll take along my wagon, I'll pay for the privilege." He spoke with the confidence of someone for whom gold has always paved the way and made going easy. The looks he got from Zak and Tyra made him reconsider. The half-elf laughed bitterly.

"You're out of your league here, ye sack of blubber. Be thankful we don't leave you for the next gang to come by, or the vultures. Zak Crimsonleaf is not generous at all, but I'm willing to fulfill whatever contract I have left and escort you to Memnon. Be….very….thankful, because also, Zak Crimsonleaf would probably be wiser just to kill all three of you to make supplies last longer, and to not have to listen to your whining all the way. And whatever you're thinking of me, everybody else is worse." With his piece said, Zak turned back, and left the man very pale and drawn, visible even through his sunburned face.

Armand left Mintar just as the sun set behind the Adamir Mountains, staining their snow-covered peaks red. It was hardly a time that anyone would choose to begin a journey, but that was precisely why he liked it. It was a reminder that only such as he could consider the dark, and all that lay concealed in it, no obstacle whatsoever. His steed, a fine bay that he'd been using for the better part of a year, moved along at a respectable pace. It would take him a goodly bit of time to get to Castle Tethyr, which was where Arakanzar would eventually have to go if he was heading north out of Calimsham. He sincerely doubted that anybody who was related to Kimdezar would travel cross-country, and if the wizard had been able to teleport himself, he would have been informed. It was a simple thing to work out.

On the forest of Mir, he would be able to travel a vast way in an instant by making use of a clan of dark druids that he associated with. They owed him somewhat for curtailing the logging done by the city of Darromar, which had of late taken an interest in the river traffic that flowed up and down the Ith. That would cut his journey by a little less than a third, ensuring that he would be in sight of Castle Tethyr before Arakanzar would be. If he decided to stop in a city on the way for a while, so much the better. Armand Lennox was not easily avoided.

Riding beside him was his number-one enforcer, Dram, a mountain orc who stood eight feet high at the least, and carried an enormous greatsword on his back. The orc wouldn't have caught Armand's attention, save for the fact that he spoke articulately, fought with cunning as well as savagery, and knew his own worth. He spoke of a rather curious past, with a wizard who had captured him just after his coming-of-age scarring, and infused him with greater intelligence, in hopes that he might help to try and change the orcish way of life. Needless to say, the experiment was a failure, and even though the wizard let him go, the intelligence remained, made permanent by the might of the spell. As a result, Dram was working to gain enough coin so that he might reverse the effect. Armand was only too happy to pay him for his work. On an impulse, he gestured towards the magnificent landscape, and inquired,

"Dram, did you ever appreciate sunsets, before or after?" The orc laughed, a guttural and harsh sound. Grinning through his tusks, he replied,  
"They're nice to look at, but I've never cared about how anything looks, so long as it does something that helps me. Sunsets don't help me, so no; I don't appreciate the effect at all. I suppose that you don't either."

"Perceptive of you." Armand replied, as the light grew ever fainter, swathing the landscape in shadow. "It's a matter of preference, I suppose. Just now, at the hour of twilight, all the color seems to drain away as the light wanes. Reminds me of entropy. We all fade someday." Dram grunted noncommittally.

"I'm not a philosopher. I wouldn't be one of those if I was paid to be." The last bit of sun vanished behind the mountains, and darkness descended on Mintar and the Lake of Steam.

As he made a quick end to his searching job, Zak thought he caught a noise under the pile of bodies over by the middle of the caravan. Frowning, he jumped down from the wagon, and cautiously stepped over, pausing to listen every so often. There was nothing else to be heard. Nudging the pile with his boot, he called,

"You can come out now. They're gone." Some of the bodies shifted, and Brenim dug himself out, coated with sticky gray ashes and reeking of cinders. He'd evidently survived by virtue of being lower to the ground and behind everybody else, though it couldn't have been a pleasant experience getting buried like that. The halfling was considerably worse for the wear, and he looked about with haunted eyes as he observed the destruction.

"I'm ruined…" were his first words. "I've lost everything…" He staggered over to one of the wagons and collapsed against its side. Slumping down to the sand, he absently contemplated his sling, which he was still clutching in his hand. Zak sighed. He'd seen this before. The former caravan master would be of no use to them for now. He was in shock, and needed time to recuperate.

"C'mon, Brenim, we're getting you out of here." He set the halfling on his feet and gave him a gentle push in the direction of the others.

Arakanzar and Devlar were inspecting their loot, which they hid with remarkable speed as they spotted Zak and Brenim moving towards them. Tyra scowled at the sight of them.  
"Don't tell me your little friend didn't have the courage to die well, and you're still bringing him along," she asked Zak icily. The sellsword nodded.

"What do you care about it? He never did anything to you."

"If he stays on, it means that much less food and water for me, so he _will_ be doing something to me," she retorted, taking hold of her dire mace with both hands.

"S'all right." Brenim mumbled, gesturing aimlessly with his sling. "I'll just…stay here…" Zak shook his head fiercely.

"You're coming with us, and that's that, even if I have to sling you over my shoulder the whole way. Arakonza, Devlar! Let's move out." He began to unfasten one of the camels, with much more success than Arakanzar, but Tyra gripped his wrist with an iron hold.  
"Not so fast, Crimsonleaf. Since there's three of us, and one of you, let's put it to a vote." Moving fast, Zak established a grip at the tips of her fingers, and brutally pried her hand off his wrist. Shoving it away, he turned to face her fully, beginning to become angry again.

"Since the one of me can whip all three of your asses, let's say that you're going to agree with me on this without a vote," he warned, reaching for one of his slide-out bracer daggers. A crossbow bolt embedded itself in the wagon side close by the pair, quivering with force. They both looked to the source of the shot to see Devlar reloading the weapon that launched it, and Arakanzar looking put out.

"You two can quarrel all you want as a soon as we're away from here," he reprimanded them severely. "For now, we'll take him with us, but the matter is open to debate. If you'll unfasten four of those camels, Crimsonleaf, we'll be off." Zak smothered a grin at Arakanzar's deft manipulating of the situation. He was giving Brenim time to come to his senses and realize that he was better off alive, while simultaneously removing himself from the decision-making process, so that he couldn't be blamed for whatever did happen. _Always one to hedge his bets, this Arakonza, though I doubt that's his real name._

Far to the north, in the fortress of Zhentil Keep, Tyra's absence was noticed. A functionary in clerical robes bowed before Captain Durik Lockheim, who had arranged to have Tyra get in to T'lindhet, and was not at all pleased about her failure to report.  
"My lord, our contacts in T'lindhet claim to have no knowledge of the location of our missing operative," the functionary reported. "They did indicate that she may have offended someone she shouldn't have, and we shouldn't press the matter." Durik stroked his goatee, deep in thought. He couldn't yet give up on Tyra as completely lost, for he knew she had had a contingency plan to escape, but yet he needed to get information somehow, and if he requested another operative, his superiors might take umbrage, and he'd be out of a job, most like.

"You've tried scrying," he questioned absently, knowing that the ring she wore would block such efforts. The functionary bowed again.

"Aye, my lord, with no results." Durik was struck by an idea. _Mayhap someone in Dambrath knows where she's got to. I doubt it, but those half-drow up top do travel down every now and then. I'll see about getting in touch with them. If they don't, then I'll just have to throw some good money after bad and send in somebody else. It's too bad if she's gone and croaked on me, but she _was _rather unstable._

"Send word for our wizard to communicate with somebody in Dambrath that he can depend upon. He is to inquire as to her location from him, and also to question whomever he talks to about recent events both in Dambrath and T'lindhet," he commanded confidently, settling back into his chair. He was already thinking who to promote into Tyra's vacant spot the minute he got nothing back on the search efforts. With a little effort, he could present a good enough story to his superiors that they wouldn't mind the loss. _Shame, though, to lose someone you've got blackmail-worthy knowledge over._


	7. A Long Road Ahead

Awful sorry about the long delay, but y'know how things are. Job searching, impending return to (shudder) school, and this whole dream scene has been giving me grief. As always, thanks for reading, and I promise I'll bring the dwarves into it soon. (within five chapters).

-J. Idanian

_The sellsword dreamt. He fought in the outskirts of Cormanthor, amid the bare branches and swirling snows of deep winter. He no longer quite knew who had attacked, but he knew that he and the rest of the Scardale Militia were in trouble. His sword arm trembled with the strain and, leaning against a tree, he struggled to hold onto conciousness. A dark form rose up before him, wielding a sword. He lunged forward, swinging wildly, only to have his weapon easily knocked back, his strength no longer sufficient to penetrate his foe's guard. His vision flickered._

_"Time to die, Dalesman. Consider yourself lucky to be dispatched by an officer of Hillsfar." The man's sword struck, blurring towards him faster than he could mount a defense. Zak drew one of his bracer daggers and just barely managed to intercept the strike, parrying it above him so the point thunked into the tree. Cursing, the officer yanked the sword out, and prepared to try again. The half-elf fumbled about him for his recurved shortbow, and finding it laying beside him, nocked an arrow, and tried to draw the bow, but simply could not force enough effort into his battered frame. The Hillsfarian laughed at his prey's attempt to avoid death._

_"Is that really your best? You can't even draw your own bow? You should thank me for this." He struck again, and Zak blocked with the bow, feeling the blade bite into the wood, ruining the expensive weapon, but it kept him alive, and he pushed off from the tree, snatching at the officer's light crossbow he wore, and ripping it free from the holster. Clicking it into readiness, he noticed a bolt already loaded, and saw the Hillsfarian's expression turn to fear. _Crack!_ A soft thump sounded as the body hit the snows, the feathered bolt wavering from its chest. Thanking Tymora for his luck, the half-elf vowed never to be helpless again. Another form trudged up, and he tried to load the crossbow again, but it turned out to be Alyx, the grey-haired weapons instructor. He examined the scene and shook his head._

_"Crimsonleaf, you're gods-cursed lucky, you know that. Haven't I always told you you're a terrible shot with that shortbow?" But the darkness closed in once more and the rest of Alyx's words faded away…_

He awoke, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. Looking wildly about, he saw the wooden walls of the Flint and Tinder inn, in Memnon. Dropping back to the cot, he muttered a terrible curse against all who would oppose him, swiping a hand across his forehead. With a sigh of resignation, he got up, for the one of the gifts…or perhaps one of the curses from his elven heritage was that he only needed to sleep four hours a day, and consequently, spent much of the night drinking in an attempt to extend the time. Reaching around for his sword, he encountered only splintery floorboards where his weapon should be, and his rage passed beyond description. The list of suspects whirled through his head, and it was short. Devlar was the only one who could have succeeded in the theft, of that he was certain, but the rogue would never do such a thing unless he, and by extent, Arakanzar, stood to profit, which left only Tyra. He kicked at Jemic's cot beside him, and the ranger stirred, muttering,

"Just five more minutes, Zak, it can't be dawn yet." The sellsword's quiet reply carried a great deal of force.

"My sword has been stolen. Get up and get ready. I'll check the north and south gates, you get the east gate." Jemic started, sitting up and trying to straighten her sleep-tousled hair a little. Leaping into action, he dressed swiftly, thanking the gods that he wore chainmail and not heavy armor, which took much less time to don. He drew his spare weapon from his bag of holding, a leaf-bladed longsword with an intricately carved handle, and strode away into the night, leaving his erstwhile companion, hurrying to catch up. Zak had first met her in Neverwinter, and she had stayed with him since, for what reason, he had no clue. Yet there was something that defied sending her away, and if he had to listen to a lecture on his pride and temper now and then, he would bear it out.

In the streets of Memnon, Tyra walked, the stolen blade heavy on her back, and Devlar's false words of gratitude echoing in her ears. The thief had admitted to tracking her as she followed Zak, and, not surprisingly, he had anticipated her desire to have the weapon for herself. Surprising was the fact that he had managed to pull it off, despite the fact that Zak was, as he had demonstrated over the course of their journey through the desert, an extremely light sleeper. She planned to leave immediately, before Zak awoke, and travel east, making for the Vilhon reach, from where it would be a simple matter to hire passage back to Zhent-controlled lands. As she contemplated what she would tell her superiors, she heard a heavy tread behind her, and turned about, readying her mightiest magic. A black-armored man stood before her, his gaze imposing and his speech aristocratic.

"My lady, my name is Armand Lennox. I seek a wizard who I know to be in this city. His name is Arakanzar Z'tran. You have perhaps heard of him?" Tyra smirked, showing teeth. While she held the half-drow no real ill will, neither did she think it worth it to hide him from anyone.

"Indeed I have, milord. I haven't the faintest idea where he lodges here, but I'm sure you can find him. Try any of the out-of-the-way inns, I'm sure he hasn't had time to obtain permanent quarters." Armand smiled slightly.

"And you're quite sure that you don't know where he is? If you seek to protect him, let me assure you I can make it worth your while." Tyra laughed quietly, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"If I knew where he was, believe you me, I'd be more than happy to take your coin and give you a guided tour. Sadly, I don't. However, you might start with the inn that's furthest away from the Flint and Tinder. An acquaintance of mine is has rooms there, and Arakanzar would probably seek to stay well away from him." The big man bowed formally, and snapped his fingers at someone behind her. Tyra whirled about to see the hulking figure of Dram step forward out of the shadows and take up his place at Armand's side. Despite herself, she was a little rattled by the sudden entrance of the orc, having expected any hirelings the man had to be a little more noticeable. Without a word, the two of them strode off into the gloom. She moved off in a different direction, seeking the gate east, and freedom from Memnon, and Zak Crimsonleaf.

Jemic sped swiftly through the nearly empty streets, making next to no noise. The only thing to mark her passage was the slight whistling of the air about her. Fully awake from a solid sleep, and thinking somewhat the less of Zak for it, despite how much he valued his weapon, she headed for the east gate at her best clip, her saber loose in it's scabbard and her small repetoire of spells at her fingertips. The ranger's breathing came deep and easily, with no sign of exertion. As she approached the gate, she noticed a sword-carrying figure come into view in front of her, and began slowing down, eventually coming to a walking pace only a few feet behind the suspect.

"Beg your pardon, miss," Jemic inquired blandly. The woman glanced over her shoulder and asked, "What is it?" in a tired drawl.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about a stolen sword?" the ranger needled her, fully aware that the blade the other was carrying was indeed Echoing Courage, but wanted to give her the opportunity to confess voluntarily.

"So Crimsonleaf's already up and about, is he?" Tyra sneered. "I'd thought he'd come himself and not send hirelings along to do his work for him. Tell me, would you like an arm or a leg to be torn off?" She raised the dire mace menacingly. Jemic's hand flew to her saber hilt, and the slim, curved blade fairly leaped from the sheath, dancing about in a defensive pattern.

"I've no quarrel with you, miss, and I'm no hireling. I just help him out sometimes. I'll warn you against fighting, I've seen Zak track a man a hundred miles to assuage his pride. Just give me the sword, and we can part company. I'll tell him I found no trace of you."

"Still your meddling tongue. If you retain any shred of wisdom, you'll leave before I lose my patience." Tyra warned, readying a spell. Jemic raised her off hand and intoned a rapid-fire sequence of words, and without warning, vines sprouted from the ground to wrap about the defiant cleric, immobilizing her. Jemic leaped forward, prepared to dodge a desperate swing of the dire mace, but instead ran head-on into the attack of a shimmering red-black duplicate of Tyra's weapon that seemed to weigh nothing at all. Tyra herself stood just behind the duplicate, using her own to attack the vines and beat a way out of the little entangling patch Jemic had made. The ranger fell back before the attacks of the spiritual weapon, having no opponent to hit behind it.

Getting clear of the vines, Tyra considered dismissing her summoned proxy, but decided it was more amusing to watch Jemic being chased around the street by a floating weapon. Unfortunately, it faded out soon after she escaped, and, one hand on her holy symbol of Cyric, the cleric called for the strength to crush her enemies. The dark god answered, and a barely discernible red nimbus enveloped her. Striding forward, handling her weighty dire mace lightly as though it weighed nothing, she fell upon the distraught ranger and quickly forced her back, for Jemic's saber was much too light a weapon to stay her wrath. Realizing she was outmatched, Zak's would-be assistant opted to retreat.

Whispering the words of another spell, and snaring a pinch of dirt from the cobbles beneath her during a particularly low evasion, she turned and ran, moving at a great clip, one that Tyra, even wearing lighter than mormal armor for a cleric, could not match. Breathing hard, the priestess leaned on her weapon and spat after her escaping foe.

"Fine! Go back and whine to your master like the dog you are! See if I care." She turned around, and, cursing her foul luck, headed for the east gate at a goodly pace, wishing nothing more than to be free and clear of all sellswords.

At Zhentil Keep, Derrick Syeham watched the outcome of the fight in a scrying bowl and chuckled aloud.

"I always knew you were a survivor, Ty. But for all of us, there comes a time…" He leaned back and savored his plans. He would of course, inform his masters that she lived, as he had been ordered to find out. But if he had his way, she'd not be living much longer.


	8. Convergence

Zak returned to the inn sweaty and without sighting or hearing about Tyra. His rage had died to a low ebb, but it was still there, and he was not at all panicked or worried about getting his sword back. She might think to use it against him, but he'd paid good gold to have the item attuned to him and only him. If she attempted to activate any of it's powers, it would burn her hands. As he walked in, breathing hard from his dash up and down the city, Jemic stepped forward, looking similarly disheveled.

"An interesting person, the woman you sent me to track down. You didn't happen to mention she was a powerful cleric!" She crossed her arms across her chest and scowled at him. Zak wasn't about to get angry with two people at once, and answered calmly.

"I didn't have time. You know that people who I associate with are generally like that. You probably could have just ambushed her and knocked her out or rammed a sword through her heart, or something like you rangers can do, but you decided to talk first, and here you are. C'mon, am I right or aren't I?" With an exasperated sigh, Jemic turned away and paced about the room, moaning,

"Zak Crimsonleaf, you are impossible!"

"I agree. Relax. Get some sleep and we'll head out again when it's light."

"What, you're not going to rush off right away?" Zak shook his head, and his expression softened somewhat.

"If I were alone, I would, but you're only human. She can't run far, and I want both of us to be well-rested when we start out." Jemic offered him a tired grin, and yawned.

"Oh, don't give me that line, Zak. You're just as tired as I am, there's no need to act tough for my sake." With that, she made her way up the stairs, leaving the half-elf to his thoughts. He massaged the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

"That woman'll be the ruin of me yet, if I keep on like this," he reprimanded himself lightly.

Across the city, Arakanzar Z'tran awoke to a knocking at his door. Blinking at the intrusion, he sighed and got up, rubbing his eyes. Picking up his staff, he murmured one of the words of power that activated it, and rapped it on the floor softly as he was able. When dealing with unexpected callers, he had found that it was a good thing to have a stoneskin enchantment already cast. Glancing over at Devlar, who was asleep in the corner, the wizard decided not to wake him, and opened the door. It was the man he'd hired to take up station in the common room of the inn to direct anyone who was interested in seeing him. He hadn't really expected to get results quite this fast, and indeed, it seemed more than a little suspicious. Especially given the second man holding a sword to his throat.

"You are Arakanzar Z'tran, yes?" the black-armored man queried, with a certainty that said he already knew the answer. The half-drow smiled indulgently, showing teeth.

"Naturally. I do hope that whatever reason you came to see me is worth losing sleep over, not to mention threatening one of my informants."

"The only one of your informants." The wizard shrugged helplessly.

"Just now, I'm on a budget, and I've not been in town long at all. Which begs the question of how you found me." Pulling the sword away from the petrified man's throat and sheathing it in one smooth motion, the stranger made an elegant bow, made all the more so for the armor. The informant backed away as quickly as he dared, then ran down the stairs, his footsteps fading into the distance.

"It was not difficult. I knew beforehand you had not been in town more than a day, and that you were a wizard, and you had drow blood. Given this, I reasoned that you would seek an inn that is not discriminating about it's customers, was convenient to a shop or two that sells spell components and other magical items, and was as close to a gate or the docks as possible, in case you had to leave just as quickly as you arrived. This establishment is the only one that fulfills all of those points. And here you are." Arakanzar's mind was racing, and he was becoming deeply unnerved. The only way to regain the advantage was to try and deduce something equally damaging about the stranger, and he wasn't sure if his skills in that area were as sharp as they used to be, after years of neglect. Wondering if it wasn't too late to wake Devlar, he began hesitantly.

"Perhaps you are not the only one with prowess in deduction. Your sword seems decidedly out of place with the rest of your garb, and when it was drawn, I was able to spot the symbol of Tyr just above the crosspiece, which leads me to believe it was made for a paladin, something you most certainly are not. A blackguard, then, perhaps a fallen paladin? I'll not hazard a guess that way, but you most certainly have a mission in seeking me out, and if you meant no ill towards me, you would never have had the audacity to threaten my informant, so either you have been sent here to kill me, take me captive, or garner some information from me that you believe I will be reluctant to provide." The stranger laughed quietly, a smirk pervading his features.

"Very perceptive. I am here for information. May I come in?"

"Please do." Arakanzar backed out of the door, and as he retreated, he jabbed Devlar in the ribs with the butt end of his staff, evoking a muffled groan and blankets rustling as the thief rose up, struggling to get his bearings.

"I swear I never saw that ring before in my life…Whoa…what is it, boss?"

"We have a customer, Dev," the wizard murmured quietly. "Make yourself useful." Finally throwing off the tangle of blankets, the thief stood up, raking a hand through his the wild mess that had been made of his hair and, muttering to himself about the injustice of the world, located his crossbow and took up his usual station to the back of the information seeker. Sitting down, Arakanzar reached into his satchel and took out a thick ledger that appeared to have been used as a coaster dozens of times as well as a prop for a too-short table leg. Opening it to the proper page, he produced a quill pen and inkwell from an inside pocket and steepled his fingers.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he inquired in his best business voice.

"Kimdezar Z'tran. What do you know about him?" The half-drow concealed his surprise, and fought down the threat of a smile, and shrugged.

"Never heard of him."

"I have it on good authority you are the best man to come to for information in a hundred miles. Don't insult my intelligence."

"Coin before information, friend, you seem to have forgotten that." The stranger reached into his cloak and brought out a heavy leathern bag that clinked in a most satisfying way. Laying it down on the small table, he made no move to remove his hand.

"You were saying?"

"Oh well, he's a half-drow wizard of some skill in Dambrath, also I believe he has a few relatives who claim noble blood." Without changing expression, the stranger brought out a second bag of similar size to lay alongside the first. His heart leaping at the thought of the gold he would make on this deal, Arakanzar struggled to restrain the impulse to count it there and then. Instead, he said without preamble.

"He's my younger brother and blood kin to a noble Dambrath house. The current patriarch is our uncle. Would you like the address of his estate?"

"No thank you. What I would like to know is why he would want to kill you." The wizard's thoughts took a darker turn, and he made sure his spells were still ready before answering.

"He's trying to rope me back into the family, and I got away from him again. Where did you hear this?"

"From my usual sources. And why do you wish to remain apart from the family?" The half-drow chuckled quietly.

"If you'd ever been in my place, you'd understand. I enjoy intrigue and manipulation as much as the next person, it's the meat and drink of all Dambrath nobility. Suppose I received invitations from two other nobles. Whichever one I go to, the other will think I'm plotting against him, which I probably am, but still…" he rolled his eyes in derision. "And if I do nothing, each of them will think I'm plotting with somebody else against both of them. After twenty years of trying to get into the game proper, I've decided it's just easier to leave. I certainly couldn't take up residence in T'lindhet."

"T'lindhet?"

"A drow city beneath the Gnollwatch mountains, my ancestors came from there. They're even worse." The stranger nodded slowly, considering all he had heard.

"I begin to grasp the situation. Accordingly, I will offer you a chance to buy back your life. The current price is whatever your staff is worth and five hundred gold besides. If you can top that offer, well and good. If not…" he rested his hand on his sword hilt. "Things will become…unpleasant." Arakanzar rose to his feet and, gripping his staff in both hands, took a step back.

"Kimdezar hired you, didn't he?" he asked. The other nodded.

"I only wanted to hear the details of his motives, and they are less than honorable, hence my offer." The wizard's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Why would you care about his motives?"

"People such as him, you, and I serve a cause. A cause cannot prosper if those who support it work against themselves. Too many defeats have been suffered due to such discontent. I direct your attention to the abortive Cyricist attack on Candlekeep." Arakanzar considered his options. While he could afford the price, it would take a considerable chunk out of his finances, and if Kimdezar had the resources of the family behind him, he couldn't match that. Accordingly, he resolved not to try at all, and began whispering a spell under his breath. The man's ears must have been sharper than he had thought, for at the first syllable, he drew his sword and turned the motion into a slash at the wizard's neck. Secure in his stoneskin, Arakanzar merely stood still and hardly noticed as the weapon rebounded off. Finishing his spell, his voice rose to a crescendo on the final word, and the air in the room quivered, seeming to grow thicker under the power of his magic. Nothing visible happened, save that his attacker's expression grew strained for a brief period, then returned to normal.

"Impressive spell," the stranger remarked, moving his blade to a high guard position, glancing backward at Devlar, who had his crossbow loaded, but seemed as though he very much wanted to be somewhere else.

"I'd hoped to turn you into a lizard," Arakanzar replied with distaste. "Perhaps something a little more unsubtle is necessary." Before he could start his next spell, his attacker intoned a few short phrases and gestured once, and the room went black. Ignoring Devlar's panicked cry, the wizard dove to the side, recognizing a spell of darkness, and knowing that his foe would try and use the opportunity to remove his stoneskin. Fortunately, he'd had the foresight to prepare his _dispel magic_ spell so that he could cast it without speaking, which would have instantly alerted the other to his presence. Flicking a finger, he saw the room spring back into visibility, and began yet another spell, simultaneously scrambling for the ledger and stuffing it back into the satchel, nearly causing the invocation to falter.

Another half-dozen hits rebounded off his stoneskin, which was rapidly becoming less than useless. Finishing the spell just as the final layer of his protection was reached, he sprang across the room, yanking Devlar along with him, and seemed to vanish right through the wooden wall. Sheathing his weapon, Armand smiled to himself. Things were shaping up nicely, and he was not worried about finding Arakanzar again. There was nobody alive who could escape him, and none had yet.

Dozing in a chair in the common room, Zak was suddenly knocked sideways, and sent sprawling onto the floor. Struggling to his feet and whipping out his sword, he wheeled about prepared to kill, and his jaw nearly dropped through the floor in astonishment. Arakanzar and Devlar were sprawled on the floor, both of them cursing loudly. Looking up and seeing the sellsword, the wizard's eyes widened.

"Uh…" His eyes darted around the room, and he looked over his shoulder, clearly agitated about something.

"Well?" Zak inquired. After a short time, the half-drow spoke up again.

"I can explain," he began.


	9. The Gathering Dark

First off, I'd like to thank my latest reviewer for his efforts to help improve my work. Hopefully this chapter will have enough action, and as for clichés, well, in my defense, it's almost impossible not to have one of those nowadays. But I see your point. Enjoy the show.

Zak Crimsonleaf ran, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and his red headband soaked through with sweat. His heartbeat pounded like thunder in his ears, and he was dripping blood from a dozen cuts, some of which had sliced clear through his tough leather jacket and the chain shirt beneath. Just ahead of him, Jemic was keeping up the pace with somewhat less trouble, but he could still tell she was pushing it. Abandoning the effort, Zak turned and called,

"Stop here! We'll stand and fight! Take as many down as you can!"

"It's suicide to stop, Zak! Come on!" She tried to pull him after her, but he threw off the ranger's efforts and lifted his sword to high guard. He could hear the clatter of his enemies feet on the rough stone floor of the cavern. Transferring the torch he was holding in his shield hand to his teeth, he wished fervently for his flaming sword and it's powers. His spare sword, the leaf-bladed one he was holding now was already notched in several places and he didn't expect it to last much longer. The first of his foes rounded the corner, and Zak Crimsonleaf faced down the Army of Steel.

_A short while ago…_

"Well?" Zak inquired to Arakanzar. "Explain then." The half-drow considered and shook his head.

"There's too much to explain. Let me sum up. I'd like to hire you to kill a man who's after me. How's fifty gold sound?" The sellsword flashed a grin. He could do with some action.

"Deal," he agreed, sheathing his sword, not even bothering to barter. "Where is the man?"

"At the _Silverstar Inn_, in the north part of town, though I don't know for how much longer."

"Just give me a half hour." The half-elf jogged off into the night.

Coming to the door of the inn in question, he slowed up, not intending to be taken by a surprise attack. Drawing his sword again with a quiet rasp, and unlimbering his shield, he advanced cautiously towards the door. A hideously powerful blow from behind sent him sprawling forward onto the cobbles. Rolling over, spitting curses, he stopped at the sight of the person who had dealt it. An enormous orc, holding an equally enormous greatsword in his meaty hands, grinned down at him through two yellowed tusks.

"I've got my orders," he offered as an explanation. "Nobody goes in and nobody comes out 'til my master says." Still a little stunned that he hadn't heard a thing before the orc struck, the sellsword got to his feet, his stomach knotting up at what would have happened if his opposition had decided to use the edge of the greatsword rather than the flat. Then his temper returned.

"Well how 'bout I just cram that overgrown toothpick down your throat!" he spat, hurling himself forward, holding his weapon at a deadly angle. The big orc's grin grew wider, and he brought that huge cleaver of his down so fast it made the air whistle. Rolling to the right to avoid the blow, Zak came up with the intent of laying open his enemy's side. But he never got that far. Letting go of his weapon with one hand, the orc caught the sellsword's attack in the other, ignoring the attempts to twist it free, and delivered a bone-crushing kick to Zak's midsection, sending him flying backwards again, his sword clattering to the cobbles. Ignoring the dark blood welling up from his hand, he grounded his sword and leaned on it insolently.

"I said no one goes in, runt. You have a hearing problem?" Getting to his feet again, and grimacing at the pain in his midsection, the half-elf managed to return.

"I'm gonna rip your tongue out and feed it to you!" Drawing his crossbow as fast as he could, he loosed a bolt at point-blank range…and the orc brought his blade across in time for the projectile to spend itself against the steel. Beside himself with rage, Zak drew dagger after dagger, hurling them overhand the source of the mockery. Each one was deflected handily, though it boggled his mind to see that sword move so fast. When he finally ran out of daggers, the orc advanced again, kicking away Zak's sword as he came forward.

"When you get to hell, tell'em Dram sent you, runt!" He started in on the attack, and it was all Zak could do to stay out of the way, slowly giving ground back across the street. Finally, there was nowhere else to go, and the half-elf made a last desperate attempt to dart past him, which met with an elbow in the face. Bloodied and bent, the sellsword employed his last option. He pushed off the wall, running up and along the stonework, then pushed out, lashing out with a spinning kick of his own, connecting with the tusked jaw, and like a mountain, Dram crashed backwards to the ground, stunned. Without waiting to see if the orc recovered or not, the sellsword ran over and retrieved his sword, then dashed through the doorway, nearly running into Armand as he came out of the inn. Blocking Zak's quick slash with his armored forearm, he drew his own sword, punching the pommel into the half-elf's face as it cleared the scabbard.

"Who are you?" the blackguard demanded, looking with some surprise at Dram as the orc struggled back to his feet. Spinning his sword in a full circle, first one way and then the other, Zak bowed slightly.

"Zak Crimsonleaf, sellsword legend. You may have heard of me. And who are you, exactly?" Lifting his own blade in a knight's salute, the other took up the same high guard position that the half-elf usually started off with.

"Armand Lennox. Perhaps you've heard of _me_, self-proclaimed legend." Zak's throat went dry. He _had_ heard a little of Armand's reputation, and what he had heard was the stuff that nightmares are made of. But his own fierce pride refused to let him quake at the sight of the infamous man, and he tightened his grip on his sword. A strange calm fell over him as he switched his stance into the beginning pose of Sunlight On Water, a preliminary attack sequence that was begun with an intent to provoke an attack, then defend when pressed, to open the way for other moves. Armand's eyes widened as he recognized the stance. A slight smile crossed his face as he moved into the first pose of the traditional counter for the sequence, The Seed Takes Root, which primarily utilized thrusting attacks, and was useful for getting past an overcautious opponent's guard.

Zak had no idea where Armand had learned the traditional elven sword style, which he had learned at great expense from the elves of Cormanthor, but he didn't much care. If the man was truly a master at the style, he wasn't at all sure he could match him. But he could try, for he had developed a bit of his own school of fighting over the years, and he had a shield. Shouting his battle cry, the sellsword lunged forward to clash against Armand's iron defense. The sound of the two duelists echoed through the empty streets. Dram had regained his feet and his sword, nursing his jaw, but did not engage in the fight, no doubt waiting for his master to order it so.

Unable to sleep after her brief fight, Jemic finally gave up the ghost and went downstairs, with the intention of playing cards or dice with Zak. Upon descending into the common room, she found not the half-elf, but Arakanzar and Devlar lounging about, with the latter casting nervous glances towards the door every so often.

"Where'd Zak go?" she asked, cursing the day she had joined up with the sellsword. The wizard gestured vaguely to the north.

"I hired him to kill somebody for me."

"You _what?_" Arakanzar frowned.

"What's so difficult to understand? Sellswords do that kind of thing."

"I know, but it's just…he told me he had gotten out of that kind of work." The half-drow chuckled indulgently.

"Dear girl, you should know by now that mercenaries will do anything for coin." The ranger scowled, and murmured,

"When I catch up to him, he and I are going to have a long talk. Where _exactly_ did you send him?" Getting up with a sigh, the wizard gestured for Devlar to rise as well.

"I suppose I may as well take you there myself so I won't have to deal with your inferior intellect getting my directions wrong."

Zak was losing the fight. Armand's mastery of swordsmanship was astounding. From early on in the fight, he had let the half-elf take the initiative in order to analyze his technique, then come back at him with attacks that seemed to come from everywhere. His sword was beginning to feel like an anvil in his hand, and his shield was the only reason he had survived this long. He tried again, falling into the rarely used form of The Wind Howls Among The Mountains, which most found too difficult to sustain more than a few moves in. At his best, Zak himself had been known to come within two moves of completing the sequence without dropping his sword, but as it was, he had barely begun the fourth attack when he felt his grip began to slip on the hilt.

"You're not bad, Crimsonleaf," Armand grunted as he forced Zak to give up the attempt in favor of The Trapped Horse Kicks Out, a last-ditch attack that while it offered the best chance of killing the opponent, also offered the best chance for his own death. And Armand took it. As Zak lunged forward, the point of his blade dipping under his enemy's guard, the blackguard deflected it towards the ground and, stepping in close, clubbed the sellsword in the head, then as Zak fell backwards onto the ground, planted his boot on the half-elf's sword, trapping it against the ground.

"Plenty of style, but not enough substance," he remarked conversationally, motioning for Dram to come forward. As the big orc lumbered up behind him, Armand turned about, commanding,

"Kill this fool for me, please." Dram raised his sword, but a hissing noise was heard, followed by a _thock!_, and the orc whirled around, roaring in pain and anger, revealing an arrow protruding from a gap in his armor where the torso met the arm. Looking in the direction of the arrow's origin, Zak saw Jemic, grim-faced, nocking another arrow to her shortbow. Rolling away, he scrambled up and beat a hasty retreat, noticing Arakanzar and Devlar standing behind the ranger. The wizard looked disgusted at the half-elf's defeat.

"Remind me not to hire you for a job like this again, Crimsonleaf," he said, his voice laden with contempt. Too tired to argue, Zak took up a position beside Jemic, murmuring,

"I owe you one." Armand noticed Arakanzar and called out.

"Your hireling has failed, Z'tran. Come out and fight honorably, if you think yourself capable of handling that concept." The half-drow glared fiercely at him.

"I can at least manage _this_ concept!" he retorted, and began chanting a spell. Armand and Dram swept forward, ready to kill. Devlar drew his rapier, though it was obvious he would have no chance against either of them, and Jemic squinted along the arrow's shaft, taking aim at Dram again. At the last second, before both sides met, Arakanzar finished his spell. A massive fireball bloomed in the air, flattening everyone who wasn't fast enough to dive for cover. As the smoke cleared, it was revealed that Arakanzar had been just beyond the blast radius, Devlar had come through without even a singe, Jemic and Zak were both scorched, and Dram and Armand were burned, though neither seriously. Jemic had lost her arrow, and drew her saber, dropping the shortbow to the ground. Arakanzar, noticing that Armand was still coming towards him, knocking aside Zak's weak attempts to wound him, and Dram was easily holding off Jemic and Devlar, swatting away their much lighter weapons like twigs, decided the time had come for a rapid retreat. With a sinking heart, he called,

"Devlar, to me!" and began casting a teleportation spell, intending to leave the sellsword and the ranger to their fate. But while Zak was weary nearly unto death, he still suspected that the half-drow was planning for a fast getaway, and retreated in the wizard's direction, calling for Jemic to join him. Dram came on like a landslide, swinging his massive weapon before him. Taking hold of Devlar's hand with his own, Arakanzar reached the final syllables of his spell, but Zak, catching hold of Jemic's wrist, dived for the wizard and snagged his ankle, wheezing,

"You'll not leave us behind!" Then all four of them blinked out of existence, leaving Armand and Dram staring at empty cobblestones. The orc swore in his own gutteral tongue, and tugged out Jemic's arrow without wincing.

"They fight well, master. What now?" Sheathing his sword again, Armand turned to the east, and the lightening sky.

"We head east. I don't know where he's gone to, but I can find out. Drow blood this far north is extremely rare. He'll show himself soon enough, and next time I intend to ensure he has nobody to hide behind."

In a dark and dripping cavern, far beneath the surface of Faerun, Arakanzar and his passengers blinked into existence with a small _pop!_ of displaced air. The wizard immediately jerked his leg free of Zak's grasp and swore,

"By Loviatar's bloody lash! What were you thinking?" He winced reflexively as the echoes resonated within the small space, disappearing into the distance. Zak was too tired to answer, standing up slowly and leaning against the wall. In an angry whisper, Jemic answered,

"I don't know who you are, but when you try and leave both of us to die, I'd say it's no more than you deserve!" Locating Zak by touch, she busied herself with casting a small healing spell on the half-elf, the last of her magic.

"Where are we, boss?" Devlar wanted to know.

"The Underdark, Dev. We're a few miles northeast and about a half-mile beneath Ankhapur, by the Lake of Steam. I maintain a small study here. Unfortunately, I haven't visited it in years, but it _should_ still be all right."

"I can't see a thing, boss. Where are you?"

"Relax. I can see _you_, so just hold still while I break out a torch." There was a sound of rustling and then an "Aha!" from Arakanzar. At the word 'Light' in the dark-elven speech, a soft blue glow filled the cavern, emenating from an obviously magical torch the half-drow held. Finishing with Zak, Jemic turned to face the wizard again.

"So now what do we do?" Arakanzar snorted derisively.

"_You_ can wander about until a giant spider or deep dragon finds you. _I'm_ going to find my study and stay there until I feel like coming out. C'mon, Dev."

"Stay where you are!" Zak's voice seemed much louder in the silence, though it was still weak. "You're not going to just walk away," the half-elf went on. "If you don't teleport us where we want to go, I'll-"

"Gods, Crimsonleaf, you're nearly dead. Don't think you can order me about, even when you're not. Here." The sellsword caught an ordinary torch that was tossed in his direction. "Deal with that. I've no further use for you or your little friend." The half-drow walked out of the cavern, Devlar following behind. Hurredly getting out her tinderbox, Jemic managed to light the torch before the light had completely faded, and the two of them faced the uncanny silence of the Underdark. But before long, faint sounds began to reach Zak's keen hearing. Confused, he pushed off the wall and squinted into the darkness. The noises grew louder, and he could clearly identify them as the din of battle. The time passed, with neither of them speaking, afraid to draw attention, and the torch burned lower, and the noise got louder and louder. When the clatter of booted feet sounded along the stone, it was almost a relief. As the first of the dwarves rounded the corner, Zak first was relieved, thinking he had found a friend. Then he looked closer and swore softly in elven. The duergar grinned evilly at his good fortune, though surprised to find it here and hollered back down the tunnel,

"'Ware foe! Rally to me! To me!" With that, Zak and Jemic finally got started running.


	10. Prisoners of War

From the author: Sorry about the delay, but I only write in my spare time, which has become scarce ever since I got into college. For anyone still reading, my hat's off to you. And yes, there is somewhat a lack of fight scenes, but sometimes it's unavoidable. Enjoy the show.

"Flaming Death! Come and get me, ye bastards!" Zak Crimsonleaf raged in the face of death. An onrushing tide of duergar was coming straight at him, and there was nowhere left to run. The half-elf was already exhausted from two other fights, both of which had left their marks. In a few seconds he would be swept away, his fate sealed. But he was determined to go down fighting. However, he never got the chance. A harsh, blaring horn resounded throughout the cavern, sounding a charge, and with deep-throated battle cries, another dwarven force rounded the bend to his right, flooding the stony surroundings with light from the torches they carried. Zak threw a hand across his face, temporarily blinded, and he suspected the gray dwarves felt that disadvantage much more keenly, being as they were creatures of darkness. The clashing of steel on steel echoed in his ears, half deafening him as well. But as his sight returned, he found both sides locked in furious battle. The newcomer dwarves had taken full advantage of their element of surprise, and many duergar lay dead beneath expert strokes of hammer and axe. Too tired to care, the sellsword collapsed against the rough wall and waited. He didn't have to wait long, for the duergar began staging a fighting retreat back the way they came, and the other dwarves were content to let them go, with both sides railing at each other in the jaw-cracking dwarven speech.

It was about then they noticed him, and he found himself perilously close to the business end of several gleaming weapons. He glanced behind him to see if Jemic had gotten away, and breathed a prayer of thanks to Tymora that she was nowhere to be found. Raising his hands slowly, he spoke, praying one of them understood Common.

"I mean ye no harm. My name is Zak Crimsonleaf and-" He was interrupted by the dwarf with the most ornate armor, who glared suspiciously at him while he talked, in heavily accented Common, fortunately.

"I'm not for caring who ye be, surfacer. I've not the faintest idea how ye came to be in the Underdark, but ye're to be taken straight back to the captain fer questioning." The half-elf nodded, lowering his hands.

"Believe me, I'm just glad to meet someone who isn't trying to kill me on sight." The dwarf's attitude didn't change one bit.

"Don't start celebrating just yet, surfacer. If we're not for liking yer answers, ye may yet find yerself staring death in the face. The Army of Gold hain't known fer it's mercy to spies."

"I'm no spy!" Zak snapped indignantly. Then he remembered a half-forgotten bit of lore about the dwarves who lived far to the south of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

"Wait a minute, the Army of Gold? Then you're from the Great Rift? That's a long way from here." The lead dwarf gave him a sour look.

"We'd just as soon not be here, if'n ye take my meaning. Now give over yer arms and come wi'us." Zak cautiously shrugged off his bandolier, sheathing his sword, and handed it over, along with his crossbow. The dwarf inspected the weapons with an expert eye and grunted.

"Passable work ye have here. Is that all?" Grumbling, Zak relinquished the one dagger he had kept after the fight with Dram, the biggest one that could double as a sword breaker in a pinch. He kept it in the small of his back. Handing the little blade over to his associates without looking, the dwarf stared Zak in the eye.

"Come along, then, surfacer, an' don't fall behind. Like as not ye'll get lost in these tunnels an' the gray scum will find ye afore we even notice yer gone." He snapped an order in dwarven and the group formed up into a rough line and set off at a fast march. Zak kept up as best he could, but dread clawed at him. What had happened to Jemic?

The ranger, as it happened, after obeying Zak's command to run, began stumbling in the dim light of the torch she held, which was beginning to burn low. She had no idea where she was going, only that death lay behind and most likely ahead. And that her only possible friend and ally in the Underdark was probably dead. Her breathing grew ragged and she began to stumble, but fear drove her onward. When she tripped, she thought it was simple fatigue, but something came down hard on the back of her head, and the lights went out.

When she awoke, she was in total darkness. Her hands and feet had been tied, and she was gagged. She became aware of a pair of dim red glowing spots before her, and strained to make out whatever was behind them. Then someone spoke to her in a sibilant whisper, in slightly accented Common. It sounded strangely familiar.

"Do not struggle, human, or the bindings will hurt more. You are the prisoner of House Jrin'selyn." The ranger's mind raced, trying to place where she'd heard that accent before. She tried to speak, and choked on the gag.

"Oh yes, and I have no interest in hearing you speak, either. You are probably aware that sound travels a great ways in the Underdark. As such, this is the only time you will receive these instructions. Nod if you understand." Jemic had no choice but to nod as best she could.

"Good. You will be carried along by two of us, since you cannot move in silence. At no time will you try to wriggle free to make noise, or you will be killed without question." Jemic heard nothing, but two pairs of strong arms were suddenly hoisting her up like a sack of luggage. Then they were off, with only the breeze of their swift passage to mark their movement. Jemic fought down a torrent of fear, and prayed to Mielikki that Zak was doing better then she was.

Zak sat in the middle of the dwarven camp, under guard, and unarmed. He was not happy. The camp had originally been intended to be temporary, that much was clear in the position of the gates and outposts, but at sometime it had been made permenant, and fortified. The three gates were guarded by long corridors where any incoming foes that breached them could easily be held off by a far lesser amount of men. A set of mine cart rails ran through the center of the place, and he'd seen two of the little vehicles arrive and depart, carrying supplies of quarrels, and boxes he assumed were food, though the smell that had been rising from them was hardly indicative of anything nutritious. And naturally, a few barrels of ale, dwarves being what they were. The object that drew his attention the most was probably the wargong over by a wall. The instrument was made out of shields that were either of dwarven of goblin craftsmanship, and a set of mallets hung nearby. He sulked in silence, and cursed the wizard who got him into this. _Wherever that little snot-nosed slime mold is, I hope he's in great pain!_

Arakanzar and Devlar were sitting comfortably in the half-drow's study, a smallish affair occupying an hourglass-shaped cavern disguised through illusion and warded with abjurations. Arakanzar was relaxing in a chair reading a tome entitled _Peoples of the Shining South_, while Devlar was practicing knife throwing with a wooden target at ten paces. The constant _thunk!_ was starting to get on the wizard's nerves, but he made an effort to ignore it. Experts at a profession often had such quirks. Halfway through a passage detailing a certain battle in the wars between Coramshan and High Shanatar, one of his wards chimed softly, indicating someone had passed the first layer of illusions that hid the study's entrance. Marking his place with a spare scrap of parchment, the half-drow closed the hefty volume and set it aside, rising and picking up his staff.

"Dev, we have a visitor. If you'd be so kind as to remove yourself from sight?" The thief nodded once and scrambled up the ladder to the second level, seeming to pass straight through a layer of rock. He would be able to hear the conversation even if he wouldn't be able to see it, and if things went bad, Arakanzar would give him a cue. The wizard waited patiently, as three successive wards chimed in different pitches. Finally, his impromptu visitor emerged from the shadows. Her chin held high with a regal pride, a dark elven warrior stood before him. Her leather armor was crossed with streakes of gray and brown, and would easily blend into any part of the Underdark. A longsword hung at her side, it's hilt etched with the sinous lines of drow script, and a helm with the insignia of House Jrin'selyn sat firmly on her head. Arakanzar bowed low, watching her as best he could with his peripheral vision.

"My warmest greetings to you, Kraya. I trust all goes well?" She stood stiffly and her reply carried more than a hint of scorn.

"The war between the dwarves continues to go nowhere. Battles are won and lost, but neither side has advanced or retreated for years. We are growing impatient. Have you finished gathering enough information for us to act or not?" Arakanzar smirked indulgently. He had finished his work here months ago, and had been holding out on his employers. It wasn't that hard, given Kraya's intelligence level. A common soldier in T'lindhet's army, she knew that the sort of scheming and plotting he was used to was very far above her, and didn't bother to try her hand, allowing him much greater freedom than he would have been allowed had they considered him worth assigning a higher-ranking drow to. Their mistake.

"As it happens, I've just finished. You get the information when I get the other half of my payment."

"You have received it already, and more, this year past. My commanders will never agree."

"I rather think they will when they'll be getting much more than they bargained for. I have in my possession information on every detail of the gold dwarven fortifications, supply lines, troop dispositions, and strategies employed over the past month. Believe me, its well worth the extra coin." Kraya scowled, but finally nodded, turning away. Almost as an afterthought, her fingers flew, relaying a message in the dark elven sign language. _We have taken a surfacer prisoner. We are at a loss as to how she found her way down here. You will help us with her interrogation and give us the information before you receive any additional compensation._ He nodded graciously.

"Bring her over whenever you feel ready, and I'll take a look." She vanished into the darkness, leaving him smirking.

"Dev, you can come out now," he called. The thief came down the ladder again, chuckling heartily.

"You've not lost your touch, boss. Played that lady like a harp you did." The wizard shrugged modestly.

"Elven contempt is easily exploited. Though it's going to be difficult to figure out what to do with Jemic…if it is her they've caught." Devlar rolled his eyes.

"And how many other clueless surfacer women d'you think they'd be likely to come across. Can't say how she and that sellsword got separated, but this ain't gonna end well for either of'em, I'm thinking."

"For you and me though, things are looking rather well. Isn't that what counts?"

"Always boss, always."


	11. Sun, Shade, and Blood

Hello once again. I'm back, and hopefully for a good while. Hard to imagine that I last updated almost two years ago. As I might've mentioned earlier, I consider this story to have got off to a bad start, and my attempt to finish it haven't gone well. But I'm going to make the effort anyway, and in my spare time, I've been compiling my work on Zak Crimsonleaf and company. However, I'm just interested in finishing this story so I can move on to another one, and do that one right. So if situations seem contrived, that's because they are, I'm saying it up front. But on the upside, it does have some nifty fight scenes. I can't promise regular updates, but I do promise updates until this thing gets done. I still welcome reviews, and of course, I don't own anything herein except my characters, dysfunctional though they are. The journey continues.

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Arakanzar Z'tran moved through the caverns of the Underdark in absolute silence. The air was hot and stagnant, thick with the endless heat from deep within the earth. The darkness was absolute, save for whatever radiance was provided by the sparse plant growth, or if one was unlucky, the hunting animal. The half-drow's keen darkvision, which he had laborously trained to perform to the exacting standards of a full dark elf, guided him unerringly forward. He had not taken Devlar along on his trip. The thief recognized instinctively that he did not belong here, and it showed in his anxiety. He and Arakanzar both agreed that it was best for him to confine himself to the wizard's den until they moved back to the surface. To know where you belong, he mused, is always valuable. But it was not only because of that that Devlar stayed. Arakanzar had been asked by his contacts with the dark elves to 'question' their euphemism for 'ruthlessly interrogate' a surfacer prisoner who had recently been captured blundering around where by all rights she shouldn't have been without being spotted.

The wizard was quite sure he knew who this surfacer was, and just as sure that Devlar would not react well to his 'questioning' her. Whatever might be said for the thief's merits, he preferred a quick kill, if he had to kill. Admittedly not a bad philosophy for a thief, but Arakanzar had to consider all options. As he approached the interrogation room, he strained his eyes to see if he could spot the two guards he knew were there. They wore the ubiqtious drow _piwafi_ cloaks that let them blend into the rocky walls with ease, but if the wizard concentrated all his willpower on piercing their magical veil, he could tell exactly where they were. In this case, he was able to see them when he was ten feet away-a personal best. However, he was careful to move as if he was unable to. The appearance of weakness could be useful as the appearance of strength. Neither of the guards moved as he opened the heavy iron door and entered what he had mentally labeled the torture chamber. His hearing and vision flickered for a split second as he crossed the threshhold. The door frame was enspelled so neither light nor sound could go through it, either way. It would not do to have any screams be audible.

The room had obviously been made and not just outfitted, the corners were sharp and square, and the walls were mostly smooth. It reached about thirty feet from end to end and perhaps twenty from side to side. The ceiling was high, and was the one part of the room that had not been worked, adorned with many stalactites. All around were racks holding many specialized instruments of pain, the finest the dark elves and their twisted minds could make. Knives, whips, even more exotic equipment such as acid, alchemist's fire, and poisons. The pride of the lot was the crown of nightmares that sat on its own soft cushion at the far end of the room. With that item, a questioner could inflict soul-searing torment on his prisoner even when they were asleep, or simply read their thoughts, stealing knowledge right out of their mind. Arakanzar, however, did not plan to use any of them...at least more than necessary. In the center of the room was a large wooden table upon which Jemic, stripped to her undergarments, was tied to. Her clothes and equipment were neatly arranged off to one side.

As she saw him enter the room, her expression twisted with surprise and anger.

"You!" she spat, straining against her bonds to try and get at him. "You left us to die! Damn you to the ninth hell, you and your bloody hands, you cursed whoreson! You and your drow friends!" She continued on in this vein for some time. He was reluctantly impressed with the ranger's vocabulary, the more so because she had not, until that point, exercised it this thoroughly. He supposed were he in her place, he would feel he had little to lose. And he would be right. Arakanzar let her struggle for a moment, then, when he felt the pointlessness of attempting to escape had been made clear, replied with a deliberately careless air meant to incite even greater anger.

"Did I? I recall something to that effect, but the list of people I've had killed is a long one, and my memory is not perfect." The ranger did not take the bait, and lay still, glaring at him. He met her smoldering gaze with quiet resolve. _So, she intends to make this difficult for me_. Striding over to the nearest equipment rack, he lifted a thin-bladed dagger of dark metal off its pegs, and tested the edge with his thumb. Letting a slight smile that he knew from experience to be unpleasant spread across his face, he returned to Jemic's side and casually stuck the weapon into the wood close by her neck. She remained silently defiant. He waited patiently. Anticipation could be one of the most effective interrogation methods. Nothing that you could threaten a person with would be equal to what their own imagination could conjure.

"So," he finally said, breaking the silence, "Will you tell me what you know, or will I have to hurt you?" Slowly and with great relish, Jemic answered,

"Don't even. Don't even think that act scares me. You think I'm intimidated by all this? You've never been through a northern winter in the Spine of the World, or been half torn to shreds by a dire wolf. I'm not going to make this easy for you." He sighed, shaking his head.

"You're making this much harder than it has to be. You haven't been tortured until you've been tortured by the drow. Do you know, in some of the more refined dark elven circles, torture is considered an art form? There are those who spend their lives perfecting the technique. While I admit I'm not one of them, I've seen it many times and what they have done is unspeakable. But they will do it and enjoy it...providing they are unsatisfied with my results. Back home, as a devotee of Loviatar, I was expected to be conversant in the ways of pain, both receiving it and administering it. But that was a long time ago. I may have gotten rusty. I'd not mind the chance to see if I still have my skills. Do you feel like answering my questions now?" The ranger was looking more uneasy, but her voice did not quaver.

"You'll have to get your information the hard way." He nodded.

"I could do that...or I could just use magic." His fingers began to move. She closed her eyes and tensed in anticipation of pain. But nothing happened. Opening her eyes, she saw Arakanzar still in the same position with the same smile on his face.

"Not what you expected, I would think," he remarked. "But not all magic has to be visible. Allow me to demonstrate." He made a peculiar gesture with one hand. Then, in her head, she heard his voice. _Play along. Scream at me now! _She immediately howled in agony, twisting and tossing as though wracked by inner torment.

_All right. That's enough_, the wizard said_. Good work_. She went limp, breathing hard and doing her best to look suitably afraid. The half-drow continued to speak silently. _The spell I just cast was only an enchantment of telepathy between the two of us. Took me enough effort to find it, but I find it most useful. You can speak to me as well._

_Why use telepathy? Are we being watched?_ Jemic thought back.

_Yes. My masters don't trust me any more than they do anyone else. I need to speak privately with you. I know you haven't got any information they would consider valuable, but they have to believe I interrogated you to discover that._ Before she could respond, he added, _Scream again_, and gestured with his right hand. Again, a long, despairing wail rent the air, while Jemic furiously thought, _So what do you want to get me out of here?_

_Information. I want the names of anyone you know in the north that would be willing to deal with me, places you know of where items of power can be found or there is some manner of trouble that can be exploited, general news of the north when you last were there, and any corrections to my atlas of the northlands that you can make. Oh yes, and your service for say…a year and a day._

_What?_

_It's either that or slow, painful death. You have my word I won't ask you to do anything you would consider evil. I do not use my people for tasks they are not suited for. Yes or no?_ Arakanzar took up the dagger again and mused out loud,

"People's minds are much the same. You can't hold out forever, not when I know all your greatest fears. Everybody has a weak point, Jemic, and I know yours." She could hear the smirk in his voice as he continued in her head.

_Indeed, I am well aware that you care very little for yourself. But you do care about the lives of others. I'll offer you an incentive. Agree to my offer, and I will spare one person that I would normally have had killed for every two weeks you are in my service._ In point of fact, he rarely had people killed, though naturally, he had no intention of informing the ranger of that.

_…damn you. How can you do this?_

_Easily. One more scream, please, that will be sufficient for my purposes._ Jemic poured her hatred into a snarling roar that made the room echo. The wizard's smile grew wider.

"Excellent. That will be all."

_Yes or no? You are out of time_. Closing her eyes, Jemic prayed that the year passed quickly. _May the gods forgive me for what I am about to do._

_Yes_. The half-drow stood up, taking the dagger with him, and turned as if to go. Then, almost as an afterthought, he murmured,

"Oh yes, just so you don't get any foolish ideas about escape..."

_Please accept my sincere apologies_. Before the ranger could reply, he stabbed her through the stomach. This time Jemic didn't have to fake a scream.

Under the hot southern sun, the nation of Amn baked in the summer heat. The rolling hills were parched and thirsty, covered in dead, brown grass and dried-out trees, leaves hanging limply in the still air. Occasionally, a breeze would drift by, but it only succeeded in moving the air around without cooling anything. On the lone dirt road that wound its way through the hills and plains, hardly anything moved. Any traveler with sense journeyed with caravans or only traveled in the later half of the day. It was high noon just now, and shadows were only wisps of darkness. To Tyra Blackmorn, cleric of Cyric, born near the Moonsea, where the weather tended towards cool and wet, it was the closest thing to hell on Faerun she could concieve of. The remnants of her old black studded leather armor were, she had discovered, the worst possible kind of protection to have in the southlands. Her fearsome dire mace felt as though its weight had increased tenfold, and she was reduced to dragging it along by one arm, leaving an erratic trail in the dust. All in all, things weren't going so well. But the equally heavy sword slung on her back made things a little easier to bear. Though plain-looking, it carried a powerful enchantment of fire, and had until recently belonged to the last man to cross her, Zak Crimsonleaf. Mercenary, opportunist, and first-rate pain in the ass for those who he took exception to. The priestess was well rid of him. Absorbed in her lonely journey, Tyra failed to notice the pair of riders coming up behind her.

Armand Lennox was considerably more comfortable than Tyra. Having more experience with travel in the southlands, he was well aware of the potential for soul-searing weather during the day, and chose his method of travel and clothes accordingly. Both he and Dram were on horseback, and the blackguard had opted for a loose Tethyrian traveling outfit and a shady straw hat he'd obtained back in the city of Memnon. However, his sword was hung from his saddle, with easy reach, and his black full plate was carefully stowed in his saddlebags. Armand was a cautious person. Dram still bore his own heavy armor, even though he had to be roasting inside it. The orc didn't care much about such things. Upon sighting Tyra struggling on eastward, Armand took care to judge her from a distance. He could easily see that she was not native, even from afar her light complexion made it clear she was no southerner. However, even a visitor would have been told how to handle the weather, and she obviously did not know how. The blackguard was interested. Urging his mount forward at a faster pace, he began to consider possible ways for such a person to have gotten here, idly wondering if any of them would be as strange as the truth. Rarely was that the case.

Tyra's foul mood descended to new depths of hatred as she heard hoofbeats coming up fast behind her. The priestess was ready to kill out of pure spite, and she resolved to slay whatever fools approached. After all the setbacks and delays she had endured, this looked like a blessing straight from Cyric himself. Wiping sweaty hands on her shirt and taking a firm grip on her weapon, she turned around to see who it was that would die. Her eyes widened.

Dram alone would have been cause for celebration. Tyra had met her share of orcs in the Zhentarim, most of them were stupid brutes whose only concern was battle and loot. Some, however, were the dangerous ones, who were smart enough to cause real trouble. This was undeniably one of them. Where other orcs would have been either raging or bored, this one was sizing her up. Not to mention his armor was well cared for, and he was riding a horse, rather than eating it. He would have been tough, maybe even a challenge, but in the end, defeated.

Armand, however, was another matter. His straw hat and loose, dusty clothes failed to hide thick arms and a penetrating gaze. The sword hanging close by his side and the gleam of armor peeking out of his saddlebags spoke of a warrior that wished to remain hidden. Anyone that wanted to be underestimated was automatically dangerous. Aside from that, Tyra recognized all too well the prescence of dark power, akin to her own. This one was dangerous. He nodded in greeting, smiling pleasantly.

"Well met." As the silence was broken, so was the caution that had begun to weaken her resolve. Recovering her courage and her anger, and beginning to feel a savage joy at the prospect of battle, Tyra sneered and replied in tones of utmost contempt,

"What do you want?" Armand raised an eyebrow at the venom in her voice, but kept his calm. He was not someone to take offense easily. She might have to work a little harder than she'd thought to see some satisfactory results.

"Only to know if you've seen some friends of mine that may have passed this way." She spat off to the side, deliberately meeting Dram's gaze.

"Shouldn't have thought anyone who keeps company with an orc has any friends." Dram growled low in his throat, but surprisingly, did not reach for the enormous greatsword on his back. Armand's face darkened, and his next question was spoken with the grim surety of one who already knows the answer.

"Who are you?" Tyra took hold of her dire mace with both hands, grinning evilly. The heat was forgotten. Her weariness was as nothing. The infidels awaited.

"An emissary of the Lord of Murder. Let me show you his power!"

With that, matters passed beyond words. She began chanting prayers as unholy magics began to gather about her, darkening the midday sun. Her dire mace began to emit a dim reddish light that illuminated nothing as the spell gathered to a climax. Faster than seemed possible, Armand and Dram unsheathed their swords. Dram was ready to charge, his eyes shining with bloodlust, but he stopped when the blackguard raised a hand and shouted at him to stay where he was. The horses nickered nervously, tossing their heads. With a echoing shout and a terrible shrieking noise, Tyra pulled her spell into being. A circle of blackened blades tore their way into being, forming an impenetrable circle around her as they whirled and spun. She was surrounded by a tempest of iron that promised a swift death to any who dared enter. Laughing, a malicious sound full of vicious joy, Tyra regarded her opponents with murder in her eyes.

"If you surrender, I promise your death will be quick." Yet though he faced a mighty priestess, Armand only matched her fiery gaze with confidence and grim promise. Casually lifting his blade in a warrior's salute, he called across the sound of whistling steel,

"Prepare yourself, my lady! I deal in death as well!" She felt his own power begin to reach out as he raised his sword high and called upon his patron to aid him. Anger and battle fury had not overwhelmed all her wisdom. Tyra was not so mighty that she was above caution. She recognized him as working a summoning spell, one of great strength for such as he, but not a match for her own such spells. She spat off to the side, and began twisting her own summoning call. Casting her mind to a plane of inifinite cruelty and pain, she found a creature to her liking. On the ground before her, outside her blade barrier, a pentagram drew itself in wet red strokes that steamed and blackened with the power that flowed through them. As the last line was laid, there was a burst of smoke that smelled of brimstone, and the crackle of infernal fires could be heard as a creature of the depths was made manifest. It stood above even the tallest of men, and its gaunt, skeletal frame did not at all give the appearance of weakness, only wiry strength. Its thick gray hide was ridged and furrowed from many scars and old wounds, and a barbed tail, like to that of a scorpion, curved up from its backside. The thing's face was a ghastly mask that seemed carved from marble. A hideous bone devil, one of the tyrants of the Nine Hells, stood before her.

Yet, even as the priestess called upon her most fearsome servitor, Armand split the air with his sword, upon which had accumulated a black light tinged with purple, and tore a gash in the weave of Faerun. Out of the swatch of shadow, a giant wasp emerged. The vicious-looking creature was colored crimson and black, with a serrated stinger that promised great pain. The drone of its wings rose over the clacking of the devil's jaws. In unison, blackguard and cleric pointed at each other and ordered,

"Kill them!"

The bone devil spat a challenge in its gutteral, grinding language, showing long, blackened teeth, and flexed curved, wickedly sharp claws in anticipation of flesh to rend. The wasp rose into the air slowly, obeying Armand's mental command to wait for his order to attack. His vocal order had only been a feint in hopes of baiting Tyra's servitor.

"Slay the human first, and be careful!" Tyra warned. The devil laughed, a wholly repulsive sound, and waved dismissively at the cleric's words. Armand and Dram looked at each other. The blackguard only said,

"It's serious enough. Take it down fast and join up with me." He looked at Tyra with grim purpose in his gaze. "I'll handle the priestess. Hyah!" He spurred his mount forward, his sword beginning to resonate with a cold red light. His straw hat tumbled from his head as he raised the blade high, ready to bring it down upon anything that got in his way. Dram looked sullen, grinding his teeth in frustration, but dismounted skillfully, and slapped the horse on the rear to send it off. It needed no encouragement, and made for safety with all the strength left in it. The orc began intoning words of power that were nothing like Tyra or Armand's spells. He worked with entirely more wholesome power, feeling the Weave shift around him to acommodate his will. His slight wizardly skill was a relic of his time with the mage who had made him what he was. Though he hated using it, there were times when only a little spellcraft could save him, and he was smart enough to know it. As he concluded his casting, he felt incredible power flow into him, and began to grow in size. The land fell away beneath him as his height became thrice what it had been, and his weapon had turned into a slab of steel that it would take three ordinary men to lift. Grinning savagely, the giant-sized orc sprinted forward, shaking the ground as he ran, and leaving deep footprints in the earth. Who's smaller now, devil?

The scent of death was on the wind as Armand flew towards battle. In his long service, the blackguard had faced many foes, and more than once come near enough to death that he knew it as an old friend, always waiting for you. This fight was no exception, for his only chance to defeat Tyra was to force a straight fight, skill against skill, something she would avoid like the Chondathan plague. He had to get across her blade barrier somehow. His agile mind had already produced a difficult and dangerous tactic, and he urged his mount onwards to its greatest speed.

Moving fast, he clamped his heavy sword between his teeth, the steel feeling bitterly cold to the touch, and, displaying a breathtaking command of horsemanship, stood up in the saddle. Raising his arms above his head, he issued a silent command to the giant wasp, which came flying down close enough to touch, swifter than an arrow. Catching hold of two of its hairy legs, he had a single second to reflect. The bone devil waited for him patiently, its face alight with the expected carnage to come. Its curved stinger was poised and ready, and it was crouched low to absorb impacts. Offering a murmured prayer that was lost to the whistling wind, he pushed off the saddle, launching himself into the air. The blare of the wasps's wings rose to deafening intensity as it strained to lift him upwards, and he rose slower than he had hoped. The devil cursed, realizing its error too late, and the stinger arced through the air, hoping to find purchase in his hide. But he pulled up his legs fast enough, and the envenomed tip of the barb only nicked his boot. His momentum carried him over the blade barrier, and looking down he saw Tyra, surprised at his ascent, hastily shaping a spell of skill and strength. He smiled grimly. She would have done better to attempt a spell of slaying, but had panicked and was now committed to facing him with earthly weapons. As her frenzied chanting rose to its finishing note, shouted out in a voice in which a thread of fear was audible, he let go of the wasp, falling from the sky as like to some demon of vengeance. The earth rushed up at him faster than seemed possible, but he had time to take his sword out of his mouth, gripping it firmly with his good right arm. As he slammed into the ground, Armand rolled with the impact and came up onto one knee, knowing that he would have bruises to show for his little stunt. Assuming he survived, of course, for Tyra's dire mace had already begun a downward sweep that would split his skull like a ripe melon.

"Die!" she snarled. In the heartbeat before her stroke connected, Armand considered his options. His sword would shatter if he tried to block such a blow, enchanted as it was, and he had no armor, nor could he dodge in time. That left the path of sacrifice. The blackguard leaned to the right just enough that the mace head buried itself in his shoulder. Tyra's god-granted strength drove the black iron spikes deep, shattering bones and ripping flesh. A red tide of agony nearly drowned him. But if death was an old friend to him, than pain was a childhood playmate. He withstood the blow, and put all his rapidly fading might into a slash. Tyra had struck a telling blow, it was true, but she had meant to kill with one hit, and so had left herself open. He lashed out at her hand where it gripped the haft, and felt his sword cut deep. The tang of dull iron filled the air, and the dust of the road ran crimson as the priestess howled like the damned, dropping her weapon. Armand's sword fell from his hand as the mace twisted in the wound, further carving into his shoulder and wringing a groan from his battered frame. His left arm hung uselessly. But he was still alive, which was probably more than could be said for Tyra in a short while. She was struggling to deal with the stump where her left hand used to be. As they gazed at each other, each one seeing mingled dread and defiance, a death scream split the air behind Armand, and hot black blood sprayed across them both.

Dram, his mind on fire with the chance to bloody his sword, had not wasted any time after Armand began his charge. Even as he had finished his spell of growth, he was in a flat-out sprint towards the bone devil, holding the massive greatsword at a low carry. His quick stride, honed from years of raiding and skirmishes among the treacherous northern mountains, carried him forward only a little behind the blackguard, despite his heavy armor. A savage smile was on his face, revealing rows of sharpened teeth.

As Armand made his daring leap skyward, and the devil made a hasty stroke at him, Dram had the perfect opening. He was just barely outside his sword's reach, but that was no barrier to such as him. The orc swung one-handed in a rising slash, the sinews of his arm standing out like ropes as his muscles protested violently at the abuse. The devil had just realized that Dram was a lot closer than it had thought, and was starting to step back, but the blade's keen edge scored a shallow gash across its chest, and he caught the stench of its blood, smelling of ash and sulfur. The devil laughed contemptously at the scratch, and drew back its stinger for a killing stroke. Dram's grin stayed constant, and with a thought, he awoke the lethal magic that seethed within his weapon.

Pitch black flames crackled into life along the blade of the greatsword, then a thick jet of the strange fire licked out at the devil. It screeched horribly as the corrosive magic ate away at it, turning the simple scratch into a long, blackened wound from which blood ran like water. The orc's weapon could hold spells of all kinds, and Armand had empowered with one of slaying. That scratch was all that was necessary for it to work.

Once again taking his sword in both hands, Dram covered the last bit of distance between them in a split second, and struck with an upward thrust, driving the blade to the hilt through the devil's gut. He looked into its eyes as they stood face-to-face, and saw anger, hate, and pain. But most of all, he saw cold fear. It knew he had won.

"Go back to hell!" Dram roared as the devil staggered, its eyes losing focus. Giving the greatsword a brutal twist, he ripped it out through his foe's side and gave the creature a kick that sent it tumbling into the blade barrier. As it was torn to shreds by the maelstrom, he brought his sword around in a horizontal arc, moving so quickly that it turned into a blur of molten silver in the light of the midday sun. It connected at neck height, and seperated the devil's head from its shoulders.

Tyra no longer thought of victory. She no longer even thought of defeating the strangers that had stood against her mightiest magic. The priestess would settle for simple survival. Her mind was racing, but all she could think of was the severed hand that lay on the dust before her. _This can't be happening_! But the thick tide of red seeping through the clenched fingers of her other hand would not be wished away. With the determination and will that had driven her upwards into Cyric's favor and through the ranks of the Zhentarim, Tyra pulled herself together. Snatching up the hand, her skin crawling at its touch, she held it against her wrist, and scrabbled in her mind for a healing spell that could save her.

Armand saw Tyra's desperate gamble, and knew what had to be done. If he could not get back on his feet soon, he would be at the mercy of a vengeful Cyricist who would delight in making sure he died slowly and alone. Taking hold of the haft of her dire mace with his right hand, he steeled himself to pull it out of his shoulder. He would have to do it in one effort. He was not strong enough for the slow, torturous way where the iron spikes would grate on bone and saw through flesh, and if he failed, there would be no second chance. With a mighty heave, he tore the dire mace out of himself, bellowing in triumph. The bloodstained weapon fell at his feet. Darkness swirled at the edges of his vision, his duty drove him onward. Picking up his sword, he slowly rose to face Tyra, who, once again in possession of both hands, stared at him warily. She made no move to recover her weapon.

"So," she rasped wearily, "what happens now?" He grinned fiercely. Willing to bargain now, is she?

"Now, priestess," he replied, his voice strained, "you tell me everything." The silence hung heavy in the hot air as the blackguard waited for her reply.


	12. Freedom Is Never Free

From the author: A short chapter to tide people over until I pick up where I left off. The conclusion approaches rapidly, but I never really finished it, which means I'll need to start from scratch. I fear the summary has become misleading, for I must admit the dwarves play a very small role, and really, the entire story has taken some twists I never intended. Anyway, I mean to bring everything together, somehow, and round it off as well as I can. As I said earlier, I can't promise satisfaction, only resolution. Enjoy the show.

* * *

Jemic stumbled on through the trackless wastes of the Underdark, the rough tunnel floor seeming to pierce her leather boots as though they were parchment. Each step brought another curse to her lips, though she dared not speak. Arakanzar had warned her before they set out that the sound of a voice or the scrape of a footstep could be heard for miles once it was caught by the jagged cavern walls. Light would be even worse, attracting the truly dangerous creatures that dwelt in the depths. Gray dwarves, rogue drow gone feral, and horrors best left unmentioned. So they journeyed in darkness, the ranger's only hope of safety the rope that was tied about her wrist, binding her to the wizard that was now her master.

The wound in her belly hurt with each jolting stride, and she was in no way appreciative of Arakanzar's dubious logic. Pinning someone to the table with a dagger to prove your worth was not, in her opinion, a sign of a particularly impressive person. Beyond that, he had given her only a weak healing potion once they had passed beyond the ring of drow watchers and scouts. His caution was absolute, even extending to denying the ranger her weapons. The ranger's fencing saber and recurved longbow rested upon his shoulders. She still had a tiny knife hidden in her hair, but it was meant only for escape from rope bonds. Offering a prayer to Mielikki, Jemic trudged on, hoping with all her being that they reached safety soon.

Devlar Sorentann wrestled with demons of his own as he waited for Arakanzar's return. The thief disliked the Underdark intensely, but he could stand it, after a fashion. The fear that welled up within him was due to one simple fact: He was alone. And to be alone in the Underdark gnawed at a man's soul. Every sound was a drow hiding in the shadows, every flash of movement a killing blow approaching. It was fear that was slowly reducing him to nothing, and fear that kept him imprisoned in the wizard's study. As much as he had ever wanted wealth, Devlar wanted somebody to be afraid with him. He heard the soft chime that meant someone had passed the outer wards that defended the wizard's study, and sprang to his feet, his hand reaching for a throwing knife. He had been through this many times, but it never got any easier, and despite the fact that he knew the door could only be opened by Arakanzar, he was ready to put a dagger through the throat of anybody that opened that door and meant ill to him. _Gods above, but I hate this place._

Arakanzar Z'tran had been afraid once. But the half-drow had learned well from his dark cousins, and now, as he approached the door of his little study, he remained calm and collected. He disliked these little excursions nearly as much as Devlar. He had an agreement with the dark elves, but, truth be told, he disliked dealing with them more than necessary. Everything he wanted to be, but was denied because of his half-breed status, they were, and took great pleasure in mocking him. A smile played about his lips at the thought. He gave as good as he got, and had little difficulty enraging the drow whose task it was to negotiate with him. Kraya was at best a minor player in the politics of the dark elves, and knew that she had been appointed to her post as a gesture of contempt. Angry people were easy to work with. He laid his hand on the door handle, which would only open for him, and turned it the opposite direction from what would have worked on a normal door. The lock clicked, and he pushed open the door, murmuring to Jemic,

"Welcome to my home, little ranger."

Devlar, seeing that it was, in fact, his master that entered, lowered his knife, his fears finally abating. He felt his usual lazy manner returning, and, sheathing the dagger with a flourish, bowed low to say,

"Ah, good to see you again. I slew a few dozen duergar, drow and other beasts that I didn't really take a close look at. Nothing to trouble over, but I was starting to worry that I wouldn't be able to clear out the bodies before you got here. As you can see, I managed it somehow." When he straightened up, a disarming smile on his face, the thief was delighted to see Jemic enter behind the half-drow. He had liked the ranger, if only because she had absolutely no interest in the underworld of Faerun or the arts of intrigue. It was good to be reminded how important it was to be aware of such things.

"Well met once again, m'lady. How did you enjoy your stay among the drow?" He recieved a withering glare, but took it in good humor.

"Well, you can't expect a species that lives in these dark holes to have much of a sense of hospitality, I suppose." Turning to Arakanzar, he asked,

"How did you come by her? I'd thought she and that mercenary would've blundered into something sufficiently lethal to finish them." The wizard smiled slightly, untying a rope that had held him and Jemic together.

"The dark elves were pleased enough with my information that they sold her to me for a bargain price." Devlar snorted derisively. The price had mostly likely been, if anything, deliberately high, but it was still an improvement over what they might have asked. Yet there was one obvious question.

"Why'd you buy her? We don't need a tracker, guide, or archer, and she's really not the type that'd be interested in your sort of work." Arakanzar strode over to a tall bookshelf of some black stone and retrieved two volumes, answering,

"She's useful enough for now. There's no harm in having a little extra help, and there's plenty of tasks that wouldn't go against her beliefs, however foolish they are. And I'd like to see what it takes to get her to change them. These things can be a little amusing." Jemic spoke for the first time, obviously resentful at the wizard's patronizing attitude.

"If my beliefs are so foolish, why has most of Faerun managed to live according to them?"

"You delude yourself, Jemic. There is much you could learn if you had eyes to see. The world is a dark and cruel place, much like the Underdark, for the most part, and those who deny that deny that evil exists at all, which even you cannot be so idiotic as to believe." Slipping the chosen books into a satchel, the wizard looked at the ranger, his expression serious and all traces of sarcasm fled from his voice.

"You call me evil because I kill people and manipulate events from the shadows-fine. Then why do they call people like Azoun IV or the Lords of Waterdeep just and benovolent rulers? Do not they kill people? Do not they have to make their share of deals to keep their realms safe and secure? We are all evil if we live long enough, Jemic, and with any luck, one day you'll find out for yourself. Now get your things together. We're leaving."

Zak Crimsonleaf lay with his back to the cold stone wall of his cell, his brown eyes burning into the door. Since that dark day he left Scardale Town, he had suffered nobody to even so much as insult him without retribution. Now he was a prisoner until the gold dwarves saw fit to release him, and they were in no hurry. He had lain in their dungeons for days, at least, though without the sun he no longer had any sense of time. His left hand constantly strayed over his shoulder, searching for a sword that was not there. Once again he cursed his gaolers for their vigilance. He had not even so much as a table knife to his name, every last scrap of equipment he possessed had been taken from him. A hint of a smile quirked at his lips, and he reached into his thick reddish-brown hair to feel a keen bit of steel nestled there. Well, perhaps they hadn't gotten everything. He'd learned a thing or two from Jemic. Still, it would be useless in a straight fight, and he had no skill at lockpicking, so it availed him nothing.

"Talona's festering toenails!" he swore softly, standing up and pacing restlessly. The small room that he prowled about was really meant as a storeroom. The iron door was thick, and it allowed not even the faintest hint of light inside. His sight was keen, one effect of his cursed heritage, but he saw only darkness. He had come to learn the dimensions of the room by touch. Sitting down again, already weary of his circling, he ruminated on what he would do if he ever got out. Jemic he had liked, the ranger was one of the few who could tolerate his fiery temper and blunt speech, but there was little hope for her, lost in the Underdark. He prayed that she was fortunate enough to die quickly. Arakanzar he would like to kill, but the wizard was too powerful to attack directly, and could easily remain hidden from sight. That left the main object of his vengeance, Tyra Blackmorn. His hands tightened into fists at the mere thought of her name. The cursed woman had stolen his sword, and he meant to get it back. This thought sustained him, gave him the will to defy the silent darkness that surrounded him.

Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor outside. His hearing, at least, did not need light to serve him. He picked out two distinct patterns, one the heavy, regular tread of a soldier, the other a lighter, quick step. The bar of his door was thrown back with a faint rasp, and it was flung open, the sudden flood of light blinding him. Throwing an arm up to shield his eyes, the half-elf spat,

"By the pits of hell, but you had better be here to set me free, or I'll find a way to make your life miserable!"

"Ye've already done that. They're holding me responsible for not pressing the attack on the gray scum because of ye," a dwarven baritone replied resentfully. Blinking as his eyes adjusted, Zak saw three dwarves standing outside waiting for him. One was the captain that he had spoken to before, the leader of the dwarven band that had saved his life. He was still armored in his gold-trimmed full plate, and his greataxe was on his back. In his hands, though, he held a set of manacles. The dwarf on his left was the prison guard, a silent, stern man who looked to have the patience of stone. His scarred hands rested easy upon the haft of a two-handed warhammer, and his brown beard was tucked neatly into his belt. The third Zak hadn't seen before. He had a weary, resigned look to him, and his eyes were downcast. A heavy mace was thrust through his belt, and a steel roundshield was carried on his back. He was armored in adamatine half-plate, the dark metal gleaming dully in the torchlight, and around his neck was an amulet engraved with two crosssed battleaxes. The half-elf recognized the symbol of Clanggedin Silverbeard, dwarven god of battle. Had to be a priest, then.

"Well," Zak grumbled, "I don't often say this, but...thanks." The last word seemed to be dragged out of him, but the dwarf nodded in acceptance, motioning for him to come forward. The mercenary held out his hands while the manacles were made fast about his wrists, the cold metal burning like ice.

"Ye're to be judged, Crimsonleaf. Speak well and ye'll be set free with yer goods, and given a map out of here. Speak badly, and we'll show ye out as ye are. But ye'll be set free, that I promise ye. We can't spare the men to guard ye, times as they are." With that, they set off down the corridor. Despite his shackles, there was a new resolve in Zak's step. The knowledge of his freedom burned in his mind, and his thoughts turned dark with the promise of vengeance. At that moment, no one could have stopped him.

They marched for a long time along the dim hallways of the dwarven outpost, with the half-elf setting a fast pace, forcing his guards to work hard to keep up. His legs protested at the sudden activity, but he refused to feel weakness now, on the edge of liberation. He ignored his guards, and they in turn spoke little, and only to give directions. Eventually, they came to an iron and steel door, engraved with runes of power, and set into the rock with such skill that not even a knife blade would fit beneath it. The captain stepped foward rapped his mailed fist in a specific pattern. One, two, and one again. Metal scraped as a peephole was slid open, and they were confronted by a pair of suspicious eyes. A voice like millstones turning rasped,

"Who goes there?" The captain saluted, and replied,

"Captain Maredok Broadshoulder, escorting a prisoner. And before ye ask, today's password is _copper bit._" Without further reply, the eyes vanished, and Zak's sensitive ears heard the muffled sound of bolts being thrown back and locks being unlatched. The door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges, revealing a vast chamber beyond. Stepping through the door, the mercenary's eyes widened as he beheld the beating heart of the outpost.

The first thing he noticed was the light. He caught a glimpse of burning torches and magical fires that glowed with a constant white illumination before his eyes, blinded once again by the sudden brilliance, clamped shut, tears welling up from the pain. The second thing he noticed was the noise. The distinct, jaw-cracking dwarven language assailed his ears, hundreds of voices raised in joy or anger. The deep chanting of working songs echoed across the cavern. He could feel the rock beneath his feet resonate with that rythym. There were a million other sounds, the ring of hammer and anvil, the grinding of whetstones on blades, the crackling of forge fires, that he nearly staggered. After days, maybe weeks, in that dark cell with his voice his only companion, Zak Crimsonleaf was well and truly dazzled.

"Either in or out, surfacer, the door hain't a place to stand," Maredok said from behind, nudging him forward with his axe haft. The mercenary stumbled forward a short ways, cursing softly. His sight began to return to him slowly, and as he wiped away the tears on his sleeve, he took in the sight of a dwarven clan on a war footing.

The sight was truly impressive. The cavern was at least two hundred paces long and about half that wide, with the ceiling so high that it was lost in dancing shadows, and all of it was filled with preparations for battle, the same scene he'd seen again and again in the Scardale militia. Forges belched clouds of smoke into the air as weapons and armor were hammered into shape, steel screeched on the grindstone as blades were honed, and crossbows cracked as soldiers practiced their archery. The dwarves went about their work with a will, and he saw none of them idle, though he could feel a great many eyes watching him. Zak knew he could not have been under greater vigilance had he entered with bloody blade in hand. Maredok nudged him again, and pointed towards a cleared spot in the center of the hall.

"Come on, then. The elders don't like to be kept waiting."

"They kept me waiting long enough. I'm in no hurry," he replied, some of his temper returning, now that he was back on familiar ground. But he followed his guards over, seeing three dwarves seated behind a massive slab of rock that served as a table, though it barely came above his knees. Its circular shape suggested that it was the stump of a stalagmite that had been hewn down to clear the cavern. All of his judges were of the same cut, gray beards, gnarled hands, and eyes that could flay a man alive with a look. He stood in silence, crossing his arms and adopting an attitude of deliberate arrogance. Eventually, one of them nodded in greeting.

"Varredon Stonesong I be. These be Karus Greenstone and Rexx Graybane. Maredok there," he indicated the captain, who was standing to one side with a slightly nervous look on his face, "says he held off on pressing his attack on the duergar to rescue ye. Ye have anything to say on that?" Zak looked over to the dwarf in question and nodded once, slowly.

"My thanks," he said. That was as much gratitude as he was liable to get from the mercenary. Zak was extremely spare with his goodwill, but he truly did owe Maredok his life, and only a fool would fail to reward that. The dwarf shrugged armored shoulders.

"Least I could do." Karus snorted, steepling his fingers in thought.

"Looks like ye don't value yer own life a great deal. But that's yer business. Dantainforunn, cast your spell." The priest put one hand to his holy symbol, and did as he was ordered. There was a brief flare of light, then nothing. Karus explained to Zak, who was looking confused,

"A truth-telling spell that was. Can't be too careful. How did ye get down here? Any fool knows not to travel alone in the depths." Zak bristled at the memory, his eyes flashing fire.

"I grabbed hold of a cursed wizard as he teleported himself away from an attacker, and it turned out that this was his destination. He left me to die, and I pray the gods that one day I can show him how well that worked out." The slightest of smiles was visible on Karus' face.

"Perhaps ye'll get that chance. But, laying aside how ye got here, what be yer name and trade?"

The questioning continued for a long time. Zak found himself practically reciting his life history for the dwarves, and it was nothing spectacular. He'd been a mercenary for seven years, since he was 20, and before that a soldier in the Scardale militia. Before that…well, that was his business. His voice grew hoarse from talking, but he doggedly kept on, determined to end this inquiry in one session. After what seemed an eternity, his interrogators fell silent. Zak waited, his temper mounting by the moment, and struggling to restrain himself from throwing a punch at the nearest dwarf. After a fair bit of time, Varredon spoke up again.

"I'll not say that Maredok was wrong to pull yer arse out of the fire, but I won't say he was right, either. Still, I've heard nothin' to prove yer a threat. I'll not be offering ye a job, but I say that ye go free." Karus nodded slowly.

"Aye, I figure ye may as well take whate'er trouble ye bring back to the surface. I'll find for ye, and that means this judgment is ended, and it's decided that Zak Crimsonleaf is to be set free, and given back what is his." He finally smiled in full. "If ye find yer wizard, give'im a sword stroke or two for us." The mercenary's thoughts turned to red revenge, and a savage joy was rising in him. Faerun had better watch out, because I'm back, and I have lost time to make up for.

* * *

Author's Notes:

Due to a request from one of my readers, I post here a brief listing of the main characters D&D stats. This is not intended to be totally accurate, merely a rough representation meant to show what they would be like in an actual game. By the way, this is them as they would be a couple months after the story.

Zak Crimsonleaf (Chaotic Neutral male half-elf Fighter9/Rogue1)

Trade: Mercenary

Born In: The Moonsea, moved to Scardale Town when little.

Notable Possessions: +1 flaming burst bastard sword

Tyra Blackmorn (Neutral Evil female human Cleric11 of Cyric)

Trade: Zhentarim operative.

Born In: Zhentil Keep

Notable Possessions: +1 unholy dire mace.

Arakanzar Venthelio Z'tran (Lawful Evil male half-drow Wizard12)

Trade: Exiled noble.

Born In: Dambrath

Notable Possessions: Obsidian Staff (heirloom of House Z'tran, capable of casting the spells _spider climb, blacklight,_ and_, mage hand._), Ring of Mind Shielding

Devlar Sorentann (Neutral Evil male human Rogue8)

Trade: Thief

Born In: Iriabor

Notable Possessions: Defending Keen Rapier

Jemic (Neutral Good female human Ranger9)

Trade: Tracker, Guide, Adventurer

Born In: Silverymoon

Notable Possessions: None.

Armand Lennox (Lawful Evil male human Fighter6/Blackguard8)

Trade: Miscelleneous Evil, bounty hunter, underground contact, advisor.

Born In: Westgate

Notable Possessions: Various.


	13. Promises of Sunset

The sun was setting in the west, turning the land into a patchwork of gold, red, and black as the shadows lengthened. A warm breeze caressed the Lake of Steam, one last touch of the sun before the bitter cold of night, as Zak Crimsonleaf approached Ankhapur. The mercenary had seen many hardships, and looked as though everything but his essence had been scoured away, leaving an angry, harsh man as unpredictable as a lightning strike and nearly as impossible to avoid if it chose to lash out at you. His face was gaunt and grim, and dark bruises under his eyes showed that he had been getting far too little sleep of late. His clothes were ragged and threadbare, with no evidence of any attempt at their repair. As if to compensate for this, his sword was sharper than ever, and the brass of the hilt glowed in the fading light. His shield gleamed with attention, and his sure, steady stride betrayed a warrior, eager for any chance to fight.

It had cost him a tortorous effort to come so far so fast, but the fires of revenge drove him onwards. His stolen sword was proof that he could be made a fool of, that the great Zak Crimsonleaf was not above such things as theft. That there were those that dared to steal from him. His honor was blackened, and only blood would wash it clean. Even now, he was still a long way from where he had last seen the one that he would kill. Tyra Blackmorn, he guessed, was even now heading north to the Zhentarim fortress of Darkhold. But if she had been in the center of the Citadel of the Raven, with all the forces of the Black Network gathered about her, he would not have cared. He could be patient when he had to. She would make a mistake, sooner or later, and when she did, he would be there. No other outcome was possible.

A grim smile crossed his face as he trudged onward towards Ankhapur. It was close enough to begin asking for news. His path of vengeance began tonight.

* * *

Jemic watched him approach, leaning against the cool stone walls of the city. To the ranger, he was only another solitary traveler, distant and shadowed. She sighed heavily, pushing back a few strands of hair that had become disarranged with the wind. The ranger had tired of the city after the first day. Arakanzar, with his typical flexibility, was already becoming entrenched in the city's underworld, spreading the word that a wizard was available for work…the kind not mentioned in polite company. Devlar combed the streets, acting as his eyes and ears among the thieves, and Jemic was left with drudge work, nothing that she could complain was immoral or evil. Hours were spent organizing the half-drow's scribbled notes on magic, sitting in taverns to refer to Arakanzar those who wished to speak to him, and occasionally, there were jobs like this, the ones that made life a little less miserable. She was to watch those entering the city, and let him know if she saw anyone interesting.

Let him think that she was cowed by his speeches and warnings. As soon as an 'interesting person' came along, she planned on using them to get out of the city. Jemic waited patiently. This was no different from tracking a wild animal. All it required was attention to detail, and waiting for the right moment to strike.

* * *

With the sun at her back, Tyra approached Ankhapur from the west. The proud priestess had also been changed. Instead of holding her head high, her back was bent, and she shot constant glances over her shoulder. Upon her face was an expression of profound loathing that could not diguise the fear in her eyes. Armand and Dram rode behind her. The blackguard had again donned his black plate mail in anticipation of reaching the city, and wore a black and green fighting surcoat emblazoned with an unfamiliar crest. It was probably fake. Tyra knew that he was about as far from knighthood as anyone could hope to get. But he hid his true nature well, and from his face, you could never tell that he was the same man that had hacked off her hand and threatened to finish the job unless she had did what he said. Dram, the orcish enforcer, was still the same. Sullen, frowning, and ill-tempered. As if sensing her animosity, Armand remarked,

"Impatient to be free of me, priestess? I don't blame you. And don't worry, I intend to keep my word. As soon as we enter the city, you're free to go. Just don't do something foolish, like come after me." Tyra managed something resembling her old sneer.

"I won't. But somebody else might." He smiled thinly.

"I sincerely doubt that. You're not stupid enough to gamble on someone else to take me down. In the unlikely event that you manage to summon up the courage to do it yourself…you'd better know what you're doing." The three of them continued on without a word.

They had drawn within two bowshots of the high walls when, without warning, a man in dark robes appeared before them with a sharp crack like that of a whip. He held an impressively ornate staff in one dusky hand, and his hood was thrown back, showing pointed ears and long white hair. Tyra gave a startled yell and raised her dire mace, reaching for her magic, but Armand snapped,

"Hold! He's a friend." Fighting her instinct to hurl divine fire at the newcomer, Tyra lowered her weapon. The wizard, for so he must be, was not in a good mood. Looking up at the blackguard, he demanded,

"Have you anything to report? Is my wayward relative dealt with?" Armand shook his head slightly, meeting the man's gaze.

"He has not, my lord. I search for him even now."

"I am paying you for results! I do not appreciate having my coin go to waste, and I expect that you will either find him or face the consequences." Tyra scowled. A typical wizard. They expected the world to jump to do their bidding. Without something to restrain them, they were like a pack of wild dogs, leaving destruction in their wake. Armand, she noted disgustedly, did not object, and said only,

"My apologies. Your cousin is a capable man, and Faerun is a big place. But I have heard somewhat of a man resembling him from one of the caravans traveling west. This time there will be no mistakes. Though perhaps," His eyes narrowed. "If you had alerted me that he could cast a teleportation spell, he would not have escaped the first time." Tyra was intrigued at the conversation. So it was the mage's own cousin who wanted him dead. Certainly not a great deal of familial affection there.

"Just find him, and do it swiftly. I don't have time to keep going back and forth between Dambrath and wherever you happen to be." With that, the wizard whirled around, and, pulling up his hood, gestured for them to follow him into the city. The cleric's back was still bent, but her agile mind had never been as active. If Armand expected he could mistreat one of Cyric's servants and live, he would find that he was dead wrong.

* * *

Across Ankhapur, Zak was glad, more so than he would admit, to see Jemic again. At first, both of them had been astonished to find the other, whom they had thought dead or worse, alive and well. Before he could react, he found himself on his back, staring up at the spinning sky, his jaw feeling as though it had been kicked by a horse.

"What was that for?" he groaned, getting to his feet. He hadn't exactly expected a warm welcome, but a punch in the jaw from one of the only people who had ever tolerated him because of something other than coin…that was unprecedented.

"You told me you'd gotten out of the assassination business!"

"I'm not an assassin, I'm a mercenary. An assassin kills people for a living exclusively. I do other things too. Besides, the man was obviously not exactly the virtous type, you might have noticed." The ranger was unrelenting, and jabbed a finger into his chest as she snapped,

"Not the point! You don't hide something like this from me, I thought we made that clear when I offered to work with you." He sighed, unable to meet her pained gaze.

"I was going to, but we got sidetracked, and-" She held up a hand, cutting him off, and requested, her voice quietly pleading,

"Please…no excuses." The mercenary flushed red, but he was beginning to become angry again. _What right does she have to judge me?_

"All right, fine! The money was too good. I can't turn down offers because of any delicate moral arguments. It's what I do. You don't like it, I'll just keep moving. I've had about enough of you and your principles! Every time I take a job, it's 'Who hired you?' 'That's not right.' 'Being broke and starving doesn't justify taking a job like that.' Well dammit to the ninth hell, Jemic! I'm a bloody sellsword, I don't know anything else to do." His voice softened, as he admitted something that had gnawed at him ever since the day he left Scardale. "I don't know what else I am." He looked her in the eye. "But at least I try and make sure I kill the right people. I try, Jemic, it's all I can do. You can't ask for more than that. It's nice to know you're alive and not rotting in some cavern." He turned to go, but a hand caught his shoulder. Jemic's voice was quiet.

"Wait. I'm sorry. I misspoke."

"No, you didn't," Zak chided mildly. "You meant every word you said, just like I did. Don't be sorry." He grinned slightly. "Next time, I'll be sure and wake you up in the middle of the night to tell you that I've taken a job like that. Fair enough?" The ranger nodded wearily.

"Fair enough." She smiled broadly. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise. How in hell did you get out of those cursed tunnels? Thought for sure you'd bit it." The ranger's face darkened at the question.

"I don't want to talk about it just yet...at least not all of it. But there's something you should know. Arakanzar and Devlar are here, in the city." Zak's hand was on the hilt of his sword in an instant, and any happiness that he might have showed was gone, buried deep.

"Where?" Jemic stood firm, and said,

"No." The mercenary's eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched into fists.

"No is not a word that I put up with often. That damned elfblood left me to die, forsaken and alone. I'm going to go and kill him, and you're going to tell me where he is."

"You're not going off to get killed. You have better things to do, and we need to leave this town as soon as possible." the ranger argued. Zak refused to budge.

"Jemic, I don't let people try and kill me and get away with it. You can't tell me you wouldn't like to pay him back too. But since I _am_ trying to turn over a new leaf, give me one reason why he should be spared, and I'll let him live." The silence after his simple offer hung thick in the evening air, a nearly physical prescence as the ranger considered his words. She spoke carefully, hesitant and unsure.

"He saved my life. It's true that he's a despicable person, and he would have left me to die if I hadn't done what he wanted, but for all that, I'm still alive because of him. He could have killed me if he had wanted to, even after we got here. So spare his life this once. But only this once. If he ever goes against you or me again, then fine. But not now, and not this way."

Zak sighed heavily, the fight draining out of him. Suddenly, he didn't seem quite so tall. He looked old beyond his years, and very tired. His voice was flat.

"Very well."

"Thank you." He grunted.

"Don't thank me. I'm already regretting it. I _would_ still like to talk to him. If anyone will know whether _she_ has got here yet, he will." Jemic raised an eyebrow.

"Are we both thinking of the same person?" Zak nodded, grinning.

"Aye, that we are. The wizard might get off, but our favorite priestess isn't. I'm going to get my sword back. Are you with me on that?" She gestured for him to follow.

"As much as I can be, Zak. As much as I ever can be." The mercenary chuckled to himself, remembering the day that they had met.

_"And stay out!" Zak Crimsonleaf hit the cobbles with enough force that he was fairly sure he'd broken his nose. Behind him, the door of the Trade of Blades slammed shut, leaving him lying in the street, idly wondering when the world was going to stop moving around. Groaning, he got to his feet, staggering and putting a hand to his head, which had already been muddled enough before someone had decided to use him as a javelin. He was plenty drunk, to be sure, having spent the greater portion of his day in the well-known inn and tavern, which was a popular gathering place for mercenaries, spells-for-hire, and of course, adventurers. He was sure to find work, or rather, he would have been had he not decided to begin a long and impassioned tirade against a priest of Tyr. Turning around, he yelled at the unhearing stone,_

_"Well, excuse me for havin' a frice-damned 'pinion!" Receiving no answer, he spat off to the side, and wandered off into the night, intent on finding another tavern that was more accommodating. _By the gods, but tomorrow they'll learn that nobody treats Zak Crimsonleaf like this. _Lost in visions of glory, most of which also involved a great deal of ale, he failed to notice where he was going. When he finally cared to take a look, he frowned, sure that he should be concerned about venturing into the infamous docks. But, feeling not particularly afraid at the prospect, he made a feeble attempt to loosen his sword in the sheath, and went on. Before he had gotten five steps further, a patch of shadow to his right resolved into a man with a knife._

_"Whoa there, friend, where are you off to at this time of night?" the newcomer asked, his grin showing several missing teeth. Zak snorted disdainfully._

_"Back off, _friend_, or by the hells, I'll put three feet of steel through ye." He managed to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his sword, though he had doubts as to whether he could draw it without hurting himself. The man flipped his knife up and got ready to throw, murmuring,_

_"Just hold still a minute, and I promise all your problems will be over." His smile disappeared as an arrow splintered on the cobblestones in front of him, and he cursed under his breath, looking to see who had fired the shot. Zak turned around unsteadily to see someone holding a shortbow, and nocking another arrow. Her voice was steady as she bent the bow to its full extension._

_"The next one goes through your knife hand. Find another mark. This one's not worth it." The man spat and ran off, vanishing into the gloom. The archer lowered her weapon, muttering,_

_"I hate this place." Zak attempted to bow, but nearly lost his balance, and settled for raising a hand in greeting._

_"Mush obliged to ye, lash. Zak Crimshonleaf I am, an' I be in yer debt." She nodded, her expression slightly disgusted._

_"Jemic. Ah…don't worry about owing me, just let me show you to a decent inn and we'll call it good." He shrugged._

_"Sure, ash ye shay." About then the night caught up with him, and he toppled over, landing at her feet, an oblivious smile on his face. Jemic sighed heavily._

_"Pleasant dreams, Zak Crimsonleaf."_

Arakanzar too watched the day fade from his second-story room in one of the city's less reputable quarters. To his sensitive eyes, the light was a nuisance, a necessary discomfort that he had to endure. Darkness was safer by far, when he could see and common folk could not. He looked down into the street, watching the ebbing flow of people pass by. Sometimes it was a little lonely, being as intelligent and capable as he. Sometimes, he wondered if he should devote himself to something else than his ambitions. Sometimes. But always there returned, the memories of past glory. His home, far to the south, and all the promise it held, that only he could awaken. Dambrath needed guidance, and a ruler who was dedicated, who would truly rule, rather than simply watch over. If it was not him...a dark smile tugged at the corners of his mouth...then it would be. Returning his attention to his work, he was interrupted as Devlar opened the door and stepped in, not bothering to knock. It was one of the wizard's signs of trust, with both he and the thief knowing that there were other precautions taken, on both sides. But it served.

"Boss, we might have trouble," Devlar warned, his expression dark. Arakanzar returned his pen to the inkpot, and, sifting sand over his writing, asked wearily,

"What is this trouble?"

"You know that sellsword we kicked out back in the Underdark?"

"I'm doing my best to forget entirely about Zak Crimsonleaf. What of him?"

"Looks like he didn't die, or if he did, it must be his ghost comin' up the street with Jemic, lookin' like he wants a fight." Arakanzar was silent for a moment, then, with a bitter curse, he rose, snatching up his staff.

"That fool would pick now to show up. This is the last thing I need. I had better cast the illusion now. Go down and wait for my signal. If I have to, I want Jemic out of action, and take care to keep her as undamaged as possible. I'll handle the mercenary myself." Murmuring under his breath, the half-drow's hands moved in a swift series of gestures, and with a crackle of magical energy, down below in the street, an exact duplicate of him appeared. Both of them wore a deep scowl. It was always best to be prepared for anything. No matter if things did come to blows, no matter how fast Zak was or thought he was, he would never have the chance to come close to threatening Arakanzar. Let him be angry, let him be blind with fury, it will only make him easier to kill.

As Zak approached, he was careful to keep his temper under control, if only barely. When he gave his word, he kept it, and he'd be damned if he would break it now. Even so, his hand continually strayed close to his sword hilt. As he drew near to the address Jemic had given him, he saw Arakanzar himself waiting for him, looking none too pleased at the sight, and he gave up any thoughts of revenge. No matter how fast he was, he couldn't cover the ground between them, draw his sword, and spit the half-drow before he got a spell off. Attacking a mage who was ready for you was a quick way to die.

"Well," Zak called from six feet away, coming to a halt and crossing his arms. "I hadn't expected to meet you again so soon, Arakanzar." The wizard smiled coldly, nodding in greeting. No doubt Devlar was nearby.

"The feeling is mutual, Crimsonleaf. If you've come for revenge, you will not have it. If you come to offer your services, and I doubt you are that stupid, I have no need of them. If you have come to talk, which I also doubt, I have no interest in speaking with you. You may proceed on your way, and none of my goodwill goes with you." Zak raised his hands, trying to make the man understand that he wasn't here to kill him.

"I want my sword back, and I know that if Tyra has come through here, you'll know. So tell me if she's been here or not, and I'll be on my way. Arakanzar, as he thought, did not believe him, and took hold of his staff in both hands.

"Begone, Crimsonleaf. This is your second warning. There will not be a third." The staff's tip began crackling with green energy. Zak cursed inwardly. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to decide whether he wanted to continue tempting fate and try to get him to talk. The wizard watched him struggle, one eyebrow arching. Zak lifted his gaze, and opened his mouth to speak, but what he would have said, he was never sure. All thoughts of Arakanzar were driven from his mind, as behind the half-drow, he glimpsed a familiar, hated face. The face of the woman who had dared to steal from him, and not only just that, but to steal his sword, his one great treasure.

"Tyra Blackmorn!" he bellowed, whipping out his sword and charging straight past the surprised wizard, who watched him part the passerby with wild swipes of his weapon, his shield flying off his back and onto his arm. Jemic followed behind, nocking an arrow. Arakanzar, following the sellsword's path, recognized Tyra as well, but before he could decide what he should do about it, a fiery ray sliced through the illusion, which flickered before vanishing completely. Following the origin of the spell, the half-drow spotted a robed figure that could only be Kimdezar. The wizard slammed the shutters closed, hissing a dark elven curse. His world was collapsing around him, and there seemed to be nothing he could do except fight.

* * *

Author's Note: More contrived tension! What are the odds? But in all seriousness, there is a perfectly reasonable excuse for Tyra just happening to run into Zak and company. Unfortunately, I can't tell you what it is without spoiling a crucial portion of the plot for next time, which, if all goes well, will be the last, or at least second-to-last chapter. Brave souls who have ventured this far, the end is near, and I salute you for making it this far. Of course, once I finish this, there's another story coming right after, so don't think you're off the hook. Enjoy the show.


	14. Shattered

Author's Note: I had the choice of making this one extra-long chapter or two slightly-shorter than I would have preferred chapters, and I chose the second one, so I apologize if this chapter isn't all you expected. Rest assured, things will resolve, one way or another, in the next one. Unless I decide to do an epilogue, I'm still not sure about that. And, in response to the questions from the Green Knight:

1. No, and yes, go ahead, though you're also welcome to forget about that aspect of his character.

2. Yes, he should have cleric levels. I had forgotten about that. How many is up to you.

3. I'll see what I can do. Keep an eye out.

* * *

With her first step in Ankhapur, Tyra had been aware of a strange prescence, a faint tingling at her fingertips, a creeping at the back of her neck. The sword on her back seemed to be resonating with magical energy, responding to something beyond her perception. The priestess had suspected what it was right away. _Zak Crimsonleaf. I don't know how or why, but the sword is seeking him out._ Of course, the notion was absurd. The mercenary should be far away, dead even. Most likely it was only paranoia. There were plenty of other strong sources of magic in the city, no doubt. But Tyra had not gotten this far by ignoring her instincts, and even if it was not in fact Zak, it was something that made her uneasy. The natural thing to do would be to find somewhere to hide or leave the city at once. But in truth…the priestess was _tired_ of running, of living in fear, of constantly looking over her shoulder for danger both real…_the memory of Armand's chilling half-smile made her wince_…and imagined…_she saw Zak claw his way out of a cave entrance, more dead than alive, and bellow to the unhearing skies that he was coming for her, then woke up with a start._ So, she resolved, instead of running, to seek the source of her fear…and to deal with it in such a way that it would give _her_ nightmares. And she had come upon what she had, in a way, expected. Zak Crimsonleaf was alive, and thirsting for her blood. Now the mercenary came forward in a headlong charge, his expression determined, and his teeth bared. She cast a few necessary spells, then settled into a fighting stance, feet spread wide and dire mace raised, and watched him come. She taunted him, sneering,

"So eager to die? That's all right, I'm more than happy to deliver last rites!" With the last word, she opened the battle with a low sweep intended to shatter his ankle. Zak skidded to a stop, dropping to one knee and blocking with his shield while his sword flashed forward in a thrust. The priestess parried with her mace handle, diverting the blade upwards and turning the fight into a contest of strength, and with only one hand on his sword, and divine power flowing through her, it was one that the mercenary could not win, and he was forced back a few steps. Tyra did not press the attack, well aware that a quick battle favored his fast, brutal style. He would tire before she did. Zak held off on an immediate counterstrike as well, circling warily, shield leading, sword raised over his shoulder.

"Don't tell me the great Zak Crimsonleaf is losing his nerve?" she said in mock surprise, again trying to provoke him, but he did not rise to the bait. His only reply was a toothy smile, and a wordless battle cry as he came on again.

* * *

Jemic watched the pair struggle back and forth, arrow nocked and ready, but did not take aim. She did not intend to loose a single shaft unless it was clear that Zak was losing. The mercenary, she was certain, would not appreciate any help. He hated little so much as unearned victory. So she waited, enmeshed in the intricate and deadly contest that unfolded before her. Zak's bastard sword caught the dying sun in a series of silvery flashes as he executed a blindingly fast series of slashes, each of which was turned aside. Tyra's dire mace bled cold red light, etching intricate crimson patterns in the air as she made full use of both heads to batter away at the mercenary's already dented shield, sparks flying at each hit. Then, Jemic's attention was torn away by the dagger that appeared as if by magic at her throat, the edge sharp enough to pierce skin with even the slightest pressure. She could feel a thin trickle of blood welling up from a shallow cut. The ranger stifled a shout, knowing full well that if her assailant had wanted her dead, she would be bleeding out on the cobbles right now. A strong hand took hold of her shoulder, and slowly, surely, began maneuvering both of them back towards the shadows.

"Well met, Jemic," Devlar murmured in her ear. "You have a lot to answer for."

* * *

Arakanzar sprinted down the stairs from his apartment, his mind a whirlwind. He half expected to be consumed in fire at any moment. Kimdezar had never been the subtle type when combat magic was concerned, always figuring that the ubiquitous fireball or lightning bolt was the simplest and best way to end a fight before it started, and he could well have noticed the shutters slamming shut, or even purposefully given Arakanzar the chance to run. The simplest? Possibly. The best? Not by half. _And that is a lesson I will take pleasure in making sure he never forgets for as long as he lives. Which will be not much longer._ The wizard threw open the back door to the building and vanished into the shadows, already working out tactics and preparations, one thought providing a certain grim satisfaction. _He won't go far. He knows I'm not running. It's high time I put the family in their place._

* * *

After finding stabling for his and Dram's mounts, Armand had left the orc behind and sought time alone for thought and consideration, beginning to wander the city, his agile mind at work on the complexities of his labors. Who to kill. Who to spare. _This_ contact would be set to seeking a certain item, _that_ pawnbroker was to be checked in with for interesting items, and _that_ tavern would provide the information he would need to tell if Arakanzar was here. It was difficult and demanding work, but it was no more or less than his duty, and he had never shrunk from doing what it asked of him. Though of course…he had not always been that way. The quiet of the evening streets brought to mind his young days in Westgate, when the world was simpler. Stopping for a moment, Armand remembered the past…remembered that terrible day when the first of the illusions of the world were torn from his eyes.

_Fifteen-year old Armand Lennox sat despondently on the steps of the temple of Tyr. The building, built of white marble and gray-flecked granite, seemed out of place among the bustling streets of Westgate, and not only because of the style of its making. The god of justice seemed an unlikely person to take interest in the city, for whatever else it was, it was not a place of virtue. Here the rulers were the gleam of gold, the mysteries of magic, and the knife in the dark. Here, the Night Masks ruled when the sun went down, and the merchants, mercenaries, and great guilds held sway when it rose. Nonetheless, it was hard to find it in his heart to fault his home for all his life. He could not look on the familiar sights and sounds without a sense of belonging, of ease. Here, he knew how things worked, and what to do about it. He knew that it was possible to rise above one's roots, that life was worth making something of. At least…he thought he knew. He felt tears welling up, and angrily swiped a hand across his face. His father was dead._

_Strictly speaking, of course, Koraven Lennox was not his father, but it was Koraven, a traveling paladin who had seen him refuse to get involved with the thieves, and who had seen something in him. It was Koraven who found him a place at the home of a retired soldier. And it was Koraven who had saw to it that he learned of many things. Weaponcraft. Writing. Geography. History. Though the paladin was not his father, he had been as good as, and Armand eagerly awaited the times when his way took him to Westgate. Not anymore. Not ever again. He had just heard it from the latest merchant train. Koraven had been ambushed on the road and slain. How, no one could say, only that he was dead. The paladin had told Armand that the gods were just, and rewarded those who served them, and that Tyr stood at their forefront, the strong hand of justice. He had been sure that the great god would save him from peril. He had been wrong, and Armand no longer knew what to believe. Was Koraven mistaken? Had Tyr abandoned him? How could it be a just world that took him away? As he sat, and thought, he failed to notice the stranger until they were next to him._

"_Something wrong?" Armand's head snapped up. The speaker looked to be a priest or monk, for he wore a plain woolen robe tied with a rope belt, and was getting on in years, his hair streaked with gray. A knowing smile was on his face. Armand shrugged. The stranger sat down next to him slowly, chuckling quietly._

"_If you don't want to talk about it, my son, I will not pry. But it will do you no good to let whatever burdens you poison your mind. That I know." He folded his hands and waited patiently, looking out at the city. Eventually, Armand murmured,_

"_My father just died." The stranger sighed heavily._

"_It seems like the world will never be bright again, doesn't it?" Armand burst out angrily, standing up abruptly,_

"_How can the gods stand for this? How can the world be like this? It's not right."_

"_No, it is not. Did you think it would be?"_

"_Well…that's what he told me…that things work out…that that the world is balanced." The stranger shook his head._

"_One of the great truths of this world is that in the end, everything comes to nothing. People die, realms fall, the passage of time sweeps everything away, leaving only dust. Someday, all of this…" He gestured to the streets before them. "…will be gone, and no one will remember it." Armand slumped to the steps._

"_Then what point is there in doing anything?" The stranger smiled._

"_Because although all will one day be forgotten, it is how it becomes so that has yet to be decided. You must focus less on where you are going, and more on how you are getting there. If you already know where you will be at the end of a journey, there is little point in taking the most direct way. Your life may be short, but you decide how to live it. This are only the basic precepts of my philosophy. If you wish, we can speak more of this later, but for now, take heart, and remember that things are not always as bad as they seem." Armand smiled faintly._

"_Thank you. May I ask your name?" Getting to his feet, the man bowed low._

"_Of course. My name is Vin Therolas."_

_You did me a great service._ In the following years, Armand had been led deeper and deeper into Vin's teachings, absorbing everything he had to say. The man had been about as far from the simple monk that he appeared as was possible. It was he who had made the blackguard what he was, and he did not regret what he had become. Vin's teachings were hardly unbiased, yet in the essentials, they rang true. The distant ring of combat and the call for the watch caused the barest hint of a smile to cross Armand's face. He was quite curious to find out who was brash enough to be dueling on the streets. Ankhapur, while not a beacon of virtue, was hardly the chaotic free-for-all of Westgate or the shadowed streets of Sembia. There were rules, and they were enforced. Of course, that only meant that he was all the more certain to gain from finding out who would break them. _Blood and death always attract the most interesting people._ He had come to know several of his best contacts, and, if you could call them that, friends, in this way. A stray thought struck him. _I wonder if that little priestess has gotten into trouble already? No…even for her, that would be pushing things. But even so…_ The sword she was carrying was known to him. Though few people would recognize that blade, he had, for nearly thirty years, made it his business to know everything that was worth knowing, and that sword was not something that many people would choose to wield, had they known what it was truly capable of. He had not chosen to tell her of what it was, naturally. He had no interest in owning it. He had, however, given her one warning. _Though I doubt she will heed it. More's the pity._

* * *

As she fought for her life, Tyra could not help but thinking of the blackguard's last words to her. Steel screeched and sparked as Zak's sword licked in from every conceivable angle, but above it all, she could still hear Armand say, his face set in a scowl, "_Whatever else you do with that sword, do not break it unless you have nothing left to lose._" Well…it looked like she might be coming near to that point. The mercenary was finding strength he had not had before, and the strain of keeping her dire mace moving was beginning to tell. For a brief moment, they again locked weapons, and she snarled into his face,

"Why can't you just _die already!_" He grinned, this time supporting his sword with both hands. His answer was quick and final.

"_Never!_" And he forced her back a step. But by then, finally, their battle once again ground to a halt as a squad of the local miltia came running, and their commander bellowed for the combatants to cease in the name of the king, and drop their weapons. Zak and Tyra glanced over to the soldiers, who were forming into a ring about them, spears and halberds leveled, and exchanged a significant look. The mercenary was furious. _Not again! Always something interfering!_ The priestess' anger was not much less. _This is not what I need! If we get taken in by these fools, he'll have the law on his side and demand his sword back._ As the demand was repeated, Zak nodded slowly, once, and lowered his weapon. Tyra followed suit. The militia closed in upon them, cautiously, and Zak winked at the priestess, who smiled unpleasantly. As one, the pair whirled around and put themselves back to back, launching a simultaneous attack against the stunned soldiers, who found themselves at a gross disadvantage. Zak rammed his shield into one man's face, feeling his nose break, while Tyra caught another in the ankle with a vicious one-two strike that left him screaming on the ground, thoughts of fighting forgotten. The sounds of battle rose higher.

* * *

As Devlar forced her steadily back from the fight, Jemic protested as loud as she dared,

"You don't-" He only increased the pressure of his knife, snapping,

"Quiet! I don't what? Know what I'm doing? What I'm interrupting? The big mistake I'm making? I'm doing what the boss told me to do, and that's keeping _you_ out of the fight. You still owe him service, which it looks like you don't intend to deliver." They were nearly to an alley entrance by this time, and Jemic stopped, refusing to move, even when the rogue's dagger cut deeper.

"This is as far as I go," she stated firmly.

"Keep moving or I'll carve you a new smile!" Devlar hissed. Her answer was contemptuous.

"You aren't going to kill me and we both know it. Now, I am going to say something, and _you_ are going to be quiet, and listen." Glowering, Devlar wisely kept silent, and removed his hand from her shoulder. Jemic continued,

"All I want is to-" She was cut off once again as the pommel of the thief's rapier came down on her head, and she pitched forward, her sight blurring. Devlar's foot came into view, and she heard him say, as if far away,

"I'm not a very good listener, Jemic. You should know that by now." Then a second voice, one she had heard before, but remained maddeningly unfamiliar, answered him.

"Indeed. But I have a feeling you'll make an exception in this case." The ranger shook her head, and began gathering her scattered wits.

* * *

Zak sidestepped the thrust of his current opponent's spear, feeling it glance off his armor, and brought his sword down, cleaving the head from the weapon, leaving the man holding a shorn length of wood. He turned and ran, dropping the useless pole. The mercenary let him go, and wheeled to face whoever else wanted to get in his way. The fighting had taken a lot out of him, and he was gasping for breath, his headband soaked with sweat, and sported several fresh cuts and slashes from which blood dripped steadily, mingling with that of those he had not been able to defeat without killing. The cobblestones were slick with it.

"Who else wants to die?" he bellowed, raising his sword. But there was no one to answer him. The soldiers were dead, unconscious, or fled from his fury. A sickening _crunch_ caught his attention, and he saw Tyra, the head of her dire mace buried in the face of her last opponent. A fair number of bodies littered the street about her, and none of them was still breathing. Zak whistled, impressed, and remarked,

"Not bad for a infernal thief and liar."

"You're too kind," she replied, her voice poisonously sweet. "You aren't bad yourself for an idiotic mercenary."

"I want my sword back."

"Come and get it, Crimsonleaf." Zak shook with the effort of holding back his temper.

"You can't win, you know. I'll always be the shadow at your back, a face in the crowd, a sword hanging over your head. Even if you win here, I'll claw my way out of the pits of hell to strike at you!" She spat at his feet.

"_Do your worst_," she snarled. "I'll send you back as many times as it takes for you to _Leave! Me! Alone_!" Gathering himself, the mercenary came on once again, sword held high.

* * *

Kimdezar considered his options. Arakanzar would be here in moments, if not less, and he wouldn't lift a finger to save his underlings. _I have to work fast._ He demanded of Devlar,

"Tell me where your master's bolt-hole is in this city, or die here and now." The thief didn't hesitate in the slightest.

"Halfway across the city, among the alchemist's guild. He has a room there under the name of Anthony, an apprentice seeking a master, but they won't tell you that. He claims to have been fleeing a cruel master and given them your description. Some of the wizards among them will fight you if necessary. I'm sure you can handle them, though." Kimdezar laughed unkindly. _This is the best he could come up with? Truly, my relation has fallen far._

"You really think you can lie to me? I've spent my whole life sorting out truth from lies, and your skill at the craft…I assure you it is nothing compared to those I usually have to deal with. That was too fast an answer to have been truth, and besides which, he would never tell you that. However, now I know you'll not tell the truth even when threatened with death. There are ways around that." He began casting a spell that would make Devlar believe him a good friend, but just as he was completing the crowning phrase, a cold so intense that it burned like fire burst upon his back, and he felt several shards of something cut through, but the worst of it was deflected by his wards. Whirling around, he saw Arakanzar, his arm still thrust outwards, a bluish mist dissipating from his hand, looking singularly disappointed he had survived. Kimdezar shook his head, sighing.

"Battle was never your specialty. I took some precautions against you, you might notice." The renegade shrugged.

"I work with what I have. Misdirection _is_. Devlar?" Kimdezar, without looking, shot one hand downward, retrieving a hand crossbow from his sleeve, and, fired it backwards. A few seconds later, there was the heavy thump of a body hitting the ground. Glancing over his shoulder, Kimdezar was impressed. Devlar lay unconscious less than a foot away from striking range for his rapier. Turning back to Arakanzar, he tossed the weapon aside.

"I think this little game of hide-and-seek has gone on long enough. Are you ready to put aside your tricks and schemes? They have all failed you. Now, you die in the straight fight that you have always avoided. A fitting end." His relative took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was calm and confident, and a little smile stole onto his face.

"Did you ever wonder _why_ exactly I have always avoided the straight fight? Why I prefer the shadowy corner, the assassin's blade, the subtle spell? Why every time you seek to confront me, I have vanished into the air? Why I was considering leaving Dambrath in the first place, even before my exile?" Kimdezar snorted derisively.

"I can only suppose you're about to tell me, from your dramatic, foolish, and rhetorical questions." Arakanzar finally broke into a broad grin, showing teeth, as he said,

"Because I was just too good at it_._" With that, he began casting once again, with Kimdezar right behind him. This time, things would be different.

* * *

Tyra was losing this fight. With each hit, the priestess could feel her strength ebbing. With each failed strike, she could sense her advantage slipping away, do what she might to hold onto it. Zak, galling as it was to admit it, was too good, too motivated, or just plain lucky. Spells were not an option. The only thing she had left was the sword that started it all. _I could give it back._ She dismissed that thought almost as quickly as it came to mind. She could never go back. Like as not, he'd just kill her anyway. But before she died, she could make sure he never got what he wanted, and go to Cyric with a smile on her face. _We all have to die sometime…and I always knew I would never go quietly._

"Hold!" she rasped, taking a few quick steps back. Zak hesitated, suspicious, but he let his sword fall, resting the point on the ground, and leaned heavily on it.

"Have you come to your senses?" he found the breath to ask. Tyra's dire mace clanged on the ground as she let it fall, raising her hands.

"I surrender. You win. I know when I'm beaten. Here, I'll give back the cursed sword." Reaching over her shoulder, she drew _Echoing Courage_ from the sheath with a faint ring. The blade was as mirror-bright and glistening-sharp as it was the day he had gotten it, and he caught his breath slightly at the sight. But a nagging little voice held him back from running to knock it out of her grasp.

"What's the catch? What trick is this? You're lying!" She laughed, and to his surprise, she meant it. It was the first time he had ever heard the priestess in good humor, and his heart sank at the sound. _This is bad, very bad._ Taking the sword and carefully drawing a red line across her palm, Tyra replied,

"No, no, no lies this time. No tricks. This thing is too much trouble. You're welcome to it. But yes, there is a catch." Zak began to feel a little better. As long as there were conditions, ironically, he had a chance of getting what he wanted.

"Name your terms, and I'll decide if I just want to kill you instead." Smearing the blade with her blood, Tyra remarked,

"You still haven't won, of course. You're forgetting a few things." Zak's eyes narrowed.

"I'm in no mood for guessing games. Tell me what I've forgotten."

"First, you've left me nothing to lose. You know what it means all too well to be like that, but you've never learned from it, never realized how dangerous someone like that can be."

"I'll try and do better the next time someone robs me of an irreplaceable weapon. Anything else?"

"Second, you think I didn't prepare for this? I might've thought you dead, but I've taken very special care to have something ready in case this ever happened. _Flaming Death._" _Echoing Courage_ flared to life, the red-gold flames matching perfectly with the colors of the sunset as they twined about the steel, sending up an oily smoke as Tyra's blood was consumed. The sellsword smirked.

"Bring it on. See if I give you time to call on your deluded failure of a god. And if you think I'm afraid of your skill with a sword, I've forgotten more tricks with that weapon than you've ever learned." Tyra smiled slightly.

"I'm sure that's true. Lastly, you're so in love with this weapon. So much so you think everyone feels the same way. But that's not why I stole it. I stole this sword because I wanted to, and to humiliate you. Nothing more, and nothing less. You can dramatize it all you want, lament how I've committed some hideous sin, but I honestly don't care. Which is why…" Her smile began to grow wider. "You would never even consider the possibility…" She took hold of the hilt with both hands, and a horrible, horrible thought began bubbling to the surface of Zak's mind.

"…that I would break it before I give it to you!"

"By all the gods, no!" He hurled himself forward, heedless of danger, feeling an icy dread that he hadn't experienced for a long time, but was every bit as bad as he remembered. He wasn't fast enough. Tyra shrieked out the words to a spell, and _Echoing Courage_ shattered like glass, catching the light in one final burst of brilliance. What happened next, no one was expecting. Except one. A massive fireball bloomed from where the weapon had been, and both sellsword and priestess were flung aside like leaves before a storm.

Jemic, halfway back to her feet, paused, and looked to where a cloud of black smoke rose into the sky. _Oh no…Zak…what have you done?_

Devlar awoke from his drugged slumber, and tried to make his body respond.

Arakanzar and Kimdezar paused a moment in their battle, and the two wizards whispered in unison, "Loviatar's bloody lash…"

Armand sighed, and drew his sword. _Duty calls. May Tymora guide my sword and Tempus aid my arm._

The city of Ankhapur shuddered beneath the presence of something new.


	15. The End Comes Back to the Beginning

Zak drifted on a sea of black, feeling it soaking into his bones, bringing with it a feeling of weariness beyond mortal limits. Everything seemed to fade, growing more and more distant, lost in the dim reaches beyond his sight. He could hear screams and cries of pain, laughter that froze his blood, and was conscious of a faint echo of agony that ran through him. All the old voices seemed to whisper in his ear as he lay, silent, wondering if he should bother to fight anymore. His father…_Keep them ears hid while we're in the city, lad, 'less you want to come out with a bloody nose or worse._ His mother…_I'm very disappointed in you._ His uncle…_I didn't want to believe you could do that. Gods help me, I didn't want to even when they showed me the body._ There were a few new ones, too. Tyra…_Mercenary scum._ Jemic…_You just don't know when to leave well enough alone. _Zak uttered a heartfelt groan, wishing they would all just go away. Maybe if he just let everything go, they would leave him alone. For a moment, he even began to do it. But then, a tiny fire of defiance began to burn within him, as he remembered other things. Times and places where he had _mattered_, where he had made a difference. His first battle against Sembian bandits. _If you hadn't spotted the glare off their lookout's helm, we'd have walked right into a shooting gallery. We owe you one._ When he had signed onto the fight against the Tuigan hordes. _Crimsonleaf, I never saw a man fight like that. Damn near scared the hell out of me, but it got them to back off, and at two-to-one odds, too._ The whispers and murmurs when he walked into a place where he was known. _Say, it's him. You think its true what they say? I ain't gonna be dumb enough to ask._ And most of all, he remembered his own resolve and determination. His old vow, that one day, he _would_ show the world that he, Zak Crimsonleaf, was the greatest warrior of all time. As the fire spread, sending a rush of new energy through him, he smiled. _They won't get me without a fight._ Zak Crimsonleaf closed his eyes, and willed himself awake.

The pain was just as bad as he had thought.

"_Nine Bloody Hells!_" he roared, as the manifold wounds he had taken made themselves known as though they were old friends. He was hurt, bad, but not fatally. The worst parts seemed like the fiery claws that tore at his gut every time he tried to take a deep breath, and the shard of blackened metal sticking out of his leg. The deep gash that was dripping blood into his eye was nothing. Scalp wounds always looked worse than they were, bleeding freely. That piece of metal triggered a memory, and it was one that erased any lingering concern for his own welfare. Gritting, his teeth, he slid the shard out of himself, and began trying to get up, intent on making the rest of Tyra's life as short and painful as possible, but he had only managed to raise himself up on his elbows when his resolve shattered even quicker than his sword had. The reason for that was what was standing in front of him. It was a demon. Only a demon could fit that description.

It towered above him, nearly twice as tall as even the most massive mountain orc, and had a deep black hide that seemed to consist of great overlapping plates of armor, with cruelly hooked spikes protruding at various places. A pair of massive arms reached nearly to the ground, each one bearing a set of enormous pincers that looked wickedly sharp, and two smaller arms, more normal, extended from its chest. Its face was akin to that of a dog's, with a forward-thrusting snout, but no dog had ever had the insane light that was burning in the demon's eyes, the yellowed rows of fangs that were exposed to the view, or the pair of burnished black horns that extended from the back of its head. The sight alone would have sent most people running away screaming. But there was something worse than that.

It was laughing, throwing its head back and raising both sets of hands in triumph, and fires burning nearby, ignited by the fireball of its release flared up even higher, the sickening stench of sulfur filling the air. The sound was unearthly, reverberating with dark joy, and could claim as kin a legion of cats being roasted alive and a battle where thousands met their death in every moment. Zak felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and he involuntarily flinched backwards. But then, he slowly, carefully, got to his feet, trying not to breathe too much. By the time he had finished, the demon had stopped laughing, and was looking at him intently. Zak met its gaze, even though inside he was feeling much more afraid than he had in a long while. It spoke, in a snarling tongue that pained the half-elf's sensitive ears to hear. He drew his shortsword (his longsword was nowhere to be seen) and snarled back,

"Talons of Garagos, but I'll send you back where you came from if I have to! Speak Common or not at all, demonspawn!"

"He said, 'So this is the one who has been wielding me to such deadly effect.', Crimsonleaf." Looking over his shoulder, Zak saw Arakanzar standing there, leaning on his staff, looking slightly scorched and not a little unnerved at the situation. Next to him was Jemic, her bow in hand, but without an arrow nocked, and with a resigned expression. Behind them both, and standing well away, were Kimdezar and Devlar, though the thief was still trying to shake off the effects of the drugged sleep he had been thrust into. _I might have known he'd speak its language._

"Well, ask it what happens now," he suggested sarcastically, gesturing for the wizard to relay the message. The half-drow cleared his throat, and managed to wring out a fairly impressive display of growls and grunts from his thin frame. The demon's answer was short, and concluded with a sweeping gesture of all four arms. Arakanzar turned to Zak and translated,

"For providing him with the most deaths at his hands, through the sword, he offers you a boon before killing you, provided that it brings suffering in the world. I advise you not to take too long in answering." Zak nodded, the idea seeming as surreal as his surroundings. _A wish that brings suffering, followed by death. I get all the luck, and not the good kind. What do I feel like leaving as my legacy today?_ He took a slow, sweeping look at the scene. The streets were deserted, save for the two half-drow, Jemic, Devlar…and Tyra, if you could count her. The priestess was sprawled on the ground behind and to the right of the demon, and she lay very still, smoke drifting up from her blackened form. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle, and her fierce eyes were glazed over in death. Zak couldn't help but smile bitterly at the sight. _Even now, she denies me what I want. I can't even wish for her to die._

"Do what you will, Zak. I trust you," Jemic said wearily. "Even though I shouldn't." Arakanzar shook his head disdainfully.

"Feel free to wish for greater arcane power for me. I promise it will go to good use."

"Both of you shut up!" Jemic flinched backwards. Sighing, he held out a hand, and said, in a lower voice. "Please, be quiet."

Zak closed his eyes, the burden of choice pressing down upon him, heavier than the Spine of the World. He had been a lot of things, but he had never been one to accept responsibility. He had commanded men, but had never admitted to any wrong, never felt regret over those who had died, fighting alongside him. To his mind, they simply weren't good enough to make it. If he could do it, he expected everyone else to be able to do it. _What do I want? A plague on the elves? Scardale Town to perish in fire? A falling star to smite Ankhapur so I don't die alone?_ The dizzying array of possibilities swirled around him, his head growing light. He was in the grip of a dilemma that he had not thought he would ever have to face. Zak Crimsonleaf was concerned over the fate of others.

When he had sworn revenge against those who had wronged him, or he thought he had wronged him, he had never thought he would ever be able to realize that revenge. He was one man with a sword, and they were many, and had the law on their side. It had become a pleasant fantasy, something to while away the idle hours with. Now that he was in the position to kill them, and kill them brutally, he found that merely having the power took away the essence of the task. His revenge would have been great because he had achieved it alone, because he personally would deliver the deathblow, and in such a fashion as to make his fame soar higher and his name a legend. Sending a demon to slaughter them…that would be as bad as anything he had accused them of. He would have become what he hated most. When it came down to it, Zak just didn't have it in him to be an executioner, to order a massacre. It was not his way. But if that was true, what could he do? What could he wish? If it didn't involve suffering, it probably wouldn't be granted. _Something that has the possibility of suffering. _As the perfect possibility occurred to him, he felt like laughing…or crying…or both. _The gods couldn't have concocted a more perfect torture for me if they'd spent a dozen lifetimes planning it. But it's the only way I can see. If only I had more time…_ The demon growled low in its throat, taking a step forward. Zak opened his eyes. _There's never enough time. It's come down to it. Time to make a choice._

"Arakanzar, translate what I say." The wizard shrugged.

"As long as it doesn't result in harm to me."

Zak pointed at Tyra, his voice calm and confident,

"She is an agent of the Zhentarim and a priestess of Cyric the Mad. She'll cause plenty of suffering in the future, believe you me…but only if she's alive." Arakanzar's eyes widened, and he nearly cut himself off, but finished interpreting, and sputtered angrily,

"I urge you to reconsider! Of all the idiotic, thrice-damned, cursed…_demonspawned ideas to wish for!_ You wanted her dead, or have you forgotten? She stole your sword, or have you forgotten that too?" Zak nodded agreeably.

"You're completely right. It's a stupid idea, probably the worst one I've ever come up with. If I had more time, maybe I could think of a better one. But I don't, and I'm doing the best I can with what I have. It might be a damn fool thing to do as a last act, but for all that it goes against every fiber of my being…well, it's something I can live with…or die with. Now tell it I want her to live." Jemic bowed slightly.

"If it helps…I don't think my trust was misplaced this time." Arakanzar looked at him in disgust.

"Crimsonleaf, you are a complete and utter fool, and the world will be the brighter for your passing. But…" his tone softened, and he spoke with a grudging respect, "…damned if you don't know what you want and what you're doing, which is more than I can say sometimes." With that, he relayed the mercenary's request, and the demon snorted, blowing twin plumes of smoke as it gestured with one of its larger arms. Tyra's body arched in a series of violent convulsions, accompanied by a hideous crackling noise as bones snapped back into place. Burns faded and vanished, leaving only faint red scars to mark where they had been, and the priestess spat out blood, coughing heavily as she began breathing again. Her eyes focused once again, although blearily, upon Zak, and he called out jauntily, feeling like his old self, before he had gotten mixed up in this whole sorry mess, and hoping she could understand him,

"You owe me your life, now and forever, and don't you ever forget it!" To the demon, he crooked a finger, and invited,

"Take your best shot." It grinned, exposing its fangs, and began to advance. Zak raised his shortsword, and prepared for his last battle. Unwilling to simply stand there and let himself be slaughtered, the mercenary bellowed defiance, tipping himself into a lurching run forward, knowing that the next blow would be the one he couldn't block or dodge. His foe blurred into motion, and the next thing he knew, he was held firmly by one of the beast's pincers as it tightened like a vise, slowly crushing him to death. He stabbed his shortsword down as hard as he could on the demon's arm, and it snapped off at the hilt as though made of tin, leaving only a slight gouge in the creature's hide. It raised him to face height, its fang-studded mouth opening wide. The mercenary didn't close his eyes or flinch away. Death was something to be faced head-on. _So this,_ he mused, _is how it ends._ But he was wrong. His ears pricked up as they detected a curious sound. A faint buzzing, almost like a bee. He looked up into the skies, and his mouth fell open.

Armand Lennox was plummeting towards him, having just released his hold on the wasp that had carried him high above the battlefield. The blackguard's sword was thrust out before him, glimmering faintly with the last of the day's light, his hands steady on the hilt. His face was tight with concentration. Like some dark avenger from the heavens, he struck just as the demon was looking upwards to find out what Zak was seeing.

Where the mercenary's shortsword had failed, Armand's blade sheared through the beast's armored skin, the weight of the wielder driving it to the hilt into the demon's broad back. Before the shocked creature could react, he let himself fall, shifting his grip to tear a long gash across its side, sending an arc of some vile greenish liquid through the air. As the sword came free, he hit the ground, rolling to absorb the impact, but still coming to his feet with wince, favoring his left leg. All of that had taken perhaps a threecount, perhaps less. Then, the demon realized what had just happened.

Its shriek of pain was deafening, and it flung Zak aside, who landed much less gracefully, and felt something tear loose inside him. He was out of this fight. But he had a smile on his blood-flecked lips as he watched his opponent howl. Jemic knelt over him, her hands glowing faintly with healing magic, but all of the mercenary's attention was on his rescuer.

"Why?" he managed to gasp out. Armand flicked gore from his sword and raised it in the warrior's salute.

"Because it's my duty," was all he said, before returning his attention to the demon.

"Creature of the Abyss," he declared, "You are not welcome on this plane. Face me, and be sent back to whatever pit you crawled from."

By this time, the beast had gotten over its initial shock, and looked, if possible, even angrier than before.

One of its smaller hands thrust outwards, and Zak felt a wave of twisting energy wash over his mind. Gritting his teeth, he managed to throw off its effects. Armand leaned forward as if into a heavy wind, but when it had passed, looked no different than before. Jemic wasn't so lucky, and an expression of sheer terror came over her face as she turned and fled, dropping her bow, her spell of healing only half-completed. Zak groaned, knowing full well that without her help, he was going to die. Helpless, he still couldn't take his eyes of the battle before him.

Armand moved in once again, sword seeking an opening. His foe, unable to make use of its spells, resorted to tooth and claw, raking a series of crimson slashes across the blackguard's face. He shook blood out of his vision, and maintained the offensive, carving deep gouges into the other's armor, trying to cripple it. Suddenly, with the slight snap that Zak had learned to expect from teleportation spells, it vanished, leaving behind a sulfurous cloud of fumes. Reappearing behind Armand, it moved to catch him in a claw in the same way it had done to him. But Armand had clearly anticipated the move, and, faster than the mercenary had thought possible, swung his sword in a single-handed slash that caught the demon in the gut, resulting in yet more blood soaking the ground. But even so, he had not counted on the demon being able to withstand his stroke, and the great claw clamped shut around him, lifting him off the ground despite his struggles. It spit in his face, drenching him in a steaming purple mess. But even blinded, Armand could still deal death. The blackguard's sword was free, and he hewed down, once, twice, three times in rapid succession, severing the great arm at the wrist. He tumbled to the street, the demon's claw still shut fast, and swiped an arm across his eyes. As he worked to pry apart his prison, the other hand caught him, this time too high for him to do more than make ineffectual cuts, trying to hit something vital. The demon was grinning like a madman, despite the loss of its hand, and started to squeeze, Armand's armor groaning and beginning to crumple inwards under the pressure. He fought to the bitter end, shredding the part of the arm he could reach, even putting his sword clean through it. His foe only laughed. Zak, his sight beginning to go dark as the pain began spreading out, could only watch. Then, the unthinkable happened. Someone else joined the attack.

A torrent of obsidian fire billowed forth to engulf both combatants in flame. The last thing Zak saw, as his strength failed, and his eyes began closing, was the demon turning to face the one that had struck it. Before he could make out who it was, he lost the fight, and the scene faded into the distance.

* * *

The awakening was a gradual process, with sight and sound slowly coalescing into familiar forms. As Zak's hearing returned, the first thing he heard was indeed a very familiar sound.

"Zak, you're lucky to be alive after what just happened. Didn't you ever think to get your sword examined?" The mercenary blinked, as the world swam into focus before him. He was staring up at a wooden ceiling, with Jemic leaning over him with a broad smile. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't wearing any armor or weapons. The thought should have unnerved him, but, oddly enough, he found he didn't really care.

"'ey, Jem," he mumbled. "I would've…but…too expensive…needed th' money." The ranger rolled her eyes.

"It's always about the money, isn't it?"

"Damn right…where am I?" He started to try and sit up, but felt a hand on his shoulder keep him firmly pinned.

"Oh, no you don't," Arakanzar admonished him, the wizard's face coming into view from behind. "Trust me, you don't want to know how many things were wrong with you." Zak tried to glare, but only managed a slight frown.

"Wha' you…doin' 'ere?" he asked. Arakanzar raised an eyebrow, and indicated the surrounding room.

"Well, as this is my home…for now, anyway, I feel entitled to enter any room in it. And in answer to your next questions, which will be, in order, why I agreed to this and what happened to bring you here, I agreed because I needed Devlar healed (the damned fool fell and broke his wrist running away from the fight because of that spell of confusion), and because the person who offered to do the job also offered to cast a few spells for me that are…shall we say, beyond the scope of the arcane. As for what happened, well, therein hangs a tale. Suffice to say, the creature that was formerly your sword was sent back where it belong, myself and Kimdezar reached an agreement whereby he gives me a head start and calls off the assassin and I return a few items that I, ah, borrowed from the family treasury, the blackguard, his bargain being null and void, left for parts unknown, taking the tame orc with him, and as you can see, the ranger, I, and Devlar, have remained here for the last two days, waiting for you to decide if you were going to live or die." Zak blinked at the rush of words, and grumbled,

"Got questions…for ye." Arakanzar sighed.

"Yes, I'm sure you do. Please, bother me some more when I've already explained everything of importance. It's things like this that remind me why I left you behind in the Underdark." Gathering his scattered wits, Zak began to speak,

"Jus' three things…Who was it…what fixed me up…why'd they do it…an' what's matters 'tween…ye an' Jemic?" The half-drow glanced over at the ranger, and shrugged.

"Another matter of my bargain with the healer in question. Jemic is no longer in my service, not that she ever did much for me while she was. As for the former two questions, well…" A door creaked open, and Arakanzar smiled at something beyond Zak's sight, "Perhaps I should let them explain that themselves. My lady, your patient has awoken, and wishes to know whom to thank for his continued existence." Zak drew in a breath, intending to protest the servile interpretation of his demands, but let it out again without saying anything when he saw the new arrival. A strangely familiar dire mace thumped against the floor.

"Well met, sellsword," said Tyra, grinning wickedly. "Surprised to see me?" She had a few new scars, and was wearing a new set of polished steel scale mail, but otherwise was the same woman who had given him nothing but grief from the day they had met. The mercenary's eyes widened in alarm, and he sputtered,

"What in….what ye doin' here?" The priestess leaned closer, enjoying his discomfort.

"So, no clever insult this time? Nothing to do but lie there and blink at this new state of helplessness you find yourself in, for once in your life?" Zak wisely kept silent, but began sweating, suspecting that she intended to exact terrible vengeance upon him. "I thought so. Now then, much as I'd like to, I'm not here to bash your head in. I heard what you said, you know, about owing you forever? But if there's one thing we have in common, it's a dislike of owing people. So I brought you back from the edge of death, and got the wizard here to lend me this little room, release Jemic from his service, and obtain healing supplies so that I could stand here, and tell you this one thing." She leaned in close enough that Zak tried to draw back, but couldn't.

"I owe you nothing!" The half-elf groaned, his sensitive ears ringing from Tyra's declaration, though the pain he felt cut deeper than any of the wounds he had taken. _Ah, Nine Hells! Zak, you're a damned fool once again. If I'd just wished for something else, I'd be dead and happy. _Drawing back to a more comfortable distance, the priestess went on, relishing each word.

"You saved my life, I saved yours, so that makes us even. Don't ever think that I'm indebted to you for anything." She turned to leave, but then, snapped her fingers as though an idea had just struck her.

"Oh yes! A thought just occurred to me." Without warning, she brought her dire mace down at the mercenary's prone form. He watched it descend, time seeming to stretch out as it approached. Arakanzar and Jemic started to move, but they were too slow. The spiked head halted just in time, barely touching his forehead. Returning the weapon to a vertical position, she remarked,

"I could have killed you then. So, doesn't that mean you owe _me_?" _That_ was more than Zak could bear, and he started to try and sit up again, only to be stopped by Jemic as he protested furiously,

"That don't count, dammit! That weren't in battle, it ain't fair!" She laughed, and turned on her heel, calling over her shoulder,

"I'm heading back north, but I'll probably collect that debt someday. Make sure to remember it." Zak, livid with anger, struggled weakly against the ranger, who was trying, and failing to calm him down.

"Dammit all, I'll get you for that! I'll kill you the next time! Zak Crimsonleaf will not let this stand! Nine Bloody Hells, come back here and say that!" Arakanzar sighed heavily.

"She is not paying me enough for this."

Author's Notes:

Ah, has it really been two years since I started this story? Seems like longer. I began this little tale with no idea where I wanted it to go, a protagonist who I didn't really know how to write, and no idea how to write at all, really. A lot has changed, but I hope that the essence of Zak Crimsonleaf has stayed the same. He might have changed in some ways, but he's still an arrogant, selfish mercenary. To anyone who made it to the end, you have my thanks. As a reward, I can only offer more of my writing, so, I'm announcing a special writing event: Each reader who made it here may request a one-shot of any character in this story as an epilogue, and I'll write it. Only one per character, and no more than five total, though. As well, watch out for my next story, an Avatar: The Last Airbender work featuring more of my original characters. Anyway, I've gone on longer than I intended, so I'll just say, I hope the ending didn't disappoint, and remind you that "A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent upon arriving."


	16. Epilogue: Armand

A/N: This one-shot is for the dedicated reader who requested one about Armand Lennox. Enjoy.

"I'm a little surprised," Armand admitted, "that you asked to meet with me. You must be aware of the kind of work that I do, and how it more often than not winds up in direct opposition to your own goals." The man sitting opposite him in the dim light of a less-than-reputable tavern of Waterdeep's Dock Ward offered a wry half-smile.

"I'm aware, yes. But in this case, you're the only man for the job. We need someone who can infiltrate a underground syndicate, gain their confidence, do everything needed to ensure they trust you without reservation…and stab them in the back. The word is that you're that man." His prospective employer's face was a bland one, one that could all too easily become another face in the crowd, and be forgotten without any effort. Fitting. Armand steepled his fingers on the table, and asked quietly, "So which syndicate are we speaking of, sir? There are so many, you know, and my knowledge, though vast, does not encompass them all."

"This one is well known, more so than others." Reaching into an inner pocket, he placed a scrap of parchment on the table, and slid it over to Armand, who picked it up, and took a careful look at the symbol drawn upon it.

"I see. You're playing for high stakes. I didn't even know your people even had an interest in the Cult of the Dragon, and I thought I knew everyone that the Moonstars dealt with." The other man hid his surprise well, but it was still detectable. A long moment passed in silence before he asked gravely,

"How did you know?" Armand raised his hands modestly.

"You spoke to me earlier. I was one of those you asked for information regarding where I could be found. You recall an older dockhand you exhibited that silver pin to? Of course, one might conclude you were a Harper, but somehow I doubt that Those Who Harp would approve the plan you have just proposed to me. You are one of the Blackstaff's Moonstars, and a high-ranking one, at that, otherwise you would not have the authorization needed to negotiate this deal. You also have five subordinates in this tavern watching us, seated at the table in the other corner. Their boots are far too fine for this place." He allowed himself a small smile at the expression of astonishment that was on the Moonstar's face. "Secrets," he remarked unnecessarily, "are my business." The other man sighed.

"So I can well believe. However, this does not change the fact that we can pay well, and we still would like to acquire your services. Are you interested, or have I wasted my time?" Armand nodded once.

"I am interested. This task will take me at least two months, perhaps three. The Cult is quite secretive, and mistrusting of new members. It shouldn't be too hard. My price is five thousand gold crowns, half now, half upon completion. Yes or no?"

"Two thousand. We don't overpay." Armand considered, then began to stand up.

"Then I suppose I should be going. Thank you for your time-"

"Wait!" Armand lowered himself back into the chair, his smile having grown wicked.

"As I thought. You don't want to go to all the trouble of finding someone else, someone less discreet or effective, and it would take too much time to find a substitute that can match me. I'm here, and I'm willing to do the work. But there is a downside. I don't negotiate. You can either pay me what I ask, which I assure you is the best price you can get, or I can walk away and forget this ever happened. Your choice."

"Very well. Five thousand crowns. If you cross us, however, be warned that you won't live to enjoy it." Armand's reply was steady.

"I have no such intention. You have a deal." He offered a hand, but the Moonstar did not take it, and, scraping his chair back, left the tavern without a backwards glance, his subordinates following. A few moments passed, and Armand remained where he was. Before long, another cowled figure slipped into the chair before him. He asked without preamble, "So, did you hear all of that?" The other nodded.

"Most of it. I'm surprised they showed up. But since they did, we'll have no trouble tracking them down. My thanks for your help. We would have had a much harder time discovering those working against us without it." Armand's expression remained impassive.

"I'm sure the Cult will be pleased, yes. My money is waiting?"

"Exactly where you specified. Two thousand gold pieces." Armand rose from his seat.

"Then it would appear our business is concluded." The Cult agent turned to go, but before he had taken two steps, he felt the point of a knife pressing into his back. Armand murmured into his ear, "Unfortunately, now that I've just agreed to help infiltrate your little organization, I'll have to start with making sure you don't say anything about this deal to your superiors. I'll want them as trusting of me as possible to begin with."

"W-what are you doing? Are you mad?"

"Far from it. I merely think it unfair for you to obtain a victory over the Moonstars without them getting something in return, and I did agree to help them. You should know I always keep my word." With that, the pair exited the tavern, into the darkness of the Dock Ward, and vanished from sight.


End file.
